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Two  orphans 


THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


yijeDeptliofa  Sisters  Love 


y/ii.  51?  ii 


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THE   TWO    ORPHANS. 


H  Kivm  ETT  h:. 


BLllVID    LOTJISE. 


.-i=^ 


THE    TWO    ORPHANS: 


OE. 


The  Depth  of  a  Sister's  Love. 


A  thrilling  story  of  Parisian  I4fe,  an  adaptation  from  the  play  of  the  "  Two  Orphant"  now  heinff 

performed  at  the    Union  Square  Theater, 


BT  E.  G.  WAI.RAVEN. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  by  NoRMAN  L.  MUNRO  &  Co.,  w»  tie 
I  Office  of  the  lAbrari^n  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


>■♦•»■ 


NEW  YORK : 

NOEMAN  L.  MUNEO  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS, 

28  &  30  BEEKMAN  STREET. 


I 


> 


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r=*:. 


y 


•pa 

THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FBOH  NOEMANDY   TO    PARIS. 

The  dnsty  dilligence  which  rolled  over  the  hard  road 
/roin  Evreux  to  Paris  on  a  certsiiu  'warm  Bumiiier's 
day  ill  the  year  18 — ,  contained  but  two  paaaeugera, 
and  those  young  girla. 

As  they  sat  on  the  hard  leathern  seat,  weary  from  the 
effects  of  the  long  ride  which  would  cause  more  ma- 
lure  persons  to  look  jaded,  one  can  see  that  so  en- 
jirossed  are  they  with  the  thoughts  of  their  arrival  iu 
Paris  that  they  forget  the  discomforts  of  the  journey 
iu  the  speculatiou  of  their  reception. 

'•  Ana  you  are  quite  certain  that  the  kind  Monsieur 
Martin  will  meet  us,  sister?"  asked  the  younger  for 
at  least  the  twentieth  time  since  the  commencment  of 
i  the  ride. 

"  He  must  be  awaiting  our  arrival,  Louise  ;  for  did 
I  ^lot  write  to  say  that  we  were  coming  ?  "  replied  Hen- 
<'fiette  as  she  smoothed  her  sister's  fair  hair  with  a 
caressing  motion  which  was  unusually  tender  even  for 
It  sister,  and  as  one  looks  into  the  young  girl's  face  they 
can  see  the  reason  of  the  watchful  care  which  Heun- 
etle  exercLses  over  her  sister. 

Louise  is  blind. 

'But  it  he  should  not  bo  there!"  persisted  the  blind 
girl 

'•Then  we  will  go  to  his  house.  I  have  the  address. 
We  will  not  think  of  his  not  being  there,  sister  mine; 
but  rather  enjoy  the  ride.  I  will  describe  to  you  every- 
thing we  meet. 

For  answer  Louise  nestled  close  beside  her  sister,  aiid 
laid  her  head  with  its  wealth  of  golden  hair  upon  her 
shoulder. 

Wliili  Henridtte  is  thus  engaged  let  us  explain  why 
the  two  young  girls  were  thus  journeying  alone  to  tlio 
great  citv. 

Nearly  six  months  previous  to  the  opening  of  our 
Storv  the  girls  were  bereft  of  their  only  protector  by 
tha  cold  hand  of  death,  and  had  been  oHer«d  a  home  in 
Paris  l)y  .Monsieur  Martin  who  was  a  cousin  of  the  dn- 
ceased  mother. 

For  severtil  months  the  girls  had  remained  with 
their  kind  friends  in  N-irmandy,  liiigeiing  nearlhL-ir 
childhood's  h^mti,  as  if  intuition  had  warned  them  of 
Utv  'jh^;  train  of  evils  which  would  attend  them  at 
the  capital. 

They  had  started  for  Paris,  thinking  th:it  no  other 
warning  to  tlieir  relative, -save  a  letter  which  was  des- 
patched the  day  previous  to  their  departure,  was  U'-- 
cessary. 

So  much  for  the  rea^^on  of  their  jouru'iy.  and  before 
the  orphans  arrive  in  Paris.  \v»  will  visit  the  hotel  oc- 
cupied by  the  Marcjui.-i  de  Presles,  whose  vile  schem- 
ing caused  so  much  miiery  to  our  heroines. 

The  marquis  was  the  representative  of  one  of  t;:e 
oldest  families  in  Paris;  but  unlike  his  affceslors,  he 
was  notorious  as  a  libertine  and  a  roue. 

Every  pleasure  that  wealth  or  sin  could  pnrchase 
was  his,  and  in  that  citv  of  crime  and  pleasure,  none 
so  reauy  as  he  to  adopt  anv  pclipme,  ho^vever  vile,  to 
attain  some  new  pleasure  which  should  gratify  his 
depraved  taste. 

Seated  before  abreakfiHt  table  loaded  with  every 
^'^''cacv  wTiioti  could  temnt  an  appetite  iilrpady  blunt- 
ed by  ai<i3ipa(ion,  the  marquis  wap  partakiiicr  sparingly 
of  his  morning  menl,  when  his  valet  entered  and  await- 
ed pprmiaaion  to  speak. 

"What  is  it.  Antoine  ?'' 


"  Monsieur  Laflenr  has  some  important " 

"  Admit  him,"  ordered  the  marquis,  who  saw  In  this 
early  visit  some  new  scheme;  for  Latleur  was  one 
who,  for  the  sake  of  the  liberal  reward  which  the 
marquis  was  ever  ready  to  give  his  tools,  pandered  to 
the  nobleman's  vices. 

Lafleur  entered  with  a  cringing  bow,  and  remained 
standing  in  a  respectful  attitude  until  his  patron  should 
allow  hiBi  to  unfold  his  budget  of  villainy. 

"Sit  down,  Lafleur,  and  tell  me  what  brings  you 
here  at  thib  early  hour. ' 

"Three  o'clock  in  the  aftern»on  is  not  an  early  hour 
for  Lafleur,  monsieur,"  replied  that  worthy,  as  he 
availed  himself  of  the  marquis'  permission  to  be 
seated. 

"  People  who  have  such  vile  taste  as  to  retire  at 
night,  must  expect  to  be  out  of  their  beds  at  any  ul- 
reasonable  hour;  but  tell  me  what  brings  you  here  !" 

'■Monsieur  has  heard  of  the  beauty  of  the  girla  of 
Normandy?'' 

"Yea,  what  of  that?"  asked  De  Presles  listlessly. 

"There  are  two  young  girls  from  Normandy  who 
are  to  arrive  in  Paris  this  evening.  They  are  without 
relatives,  except  you  call  the  cousin  of  their  mother, 
who  by  the  way,  is  my  brother-in-law,  a  relative,'" 
answered  Lafleur,  as  lie  watched  the  face  ef  his  em- 
ployer carefully,  and  as  he  saw  it  light  up  at  his  in- 
formaiion,  he  added.  "  My  brother-in-law  is  iu  Lyons, 
and  I  have  opened  the  letter  sent  by  the  two  orphans, 
advising  him  of  their  intended  arrival  to-night.  "There- 
fore I  shall  be  obliged  to  meet  them." 

"  And  you  pi-opose  what  ?  " 

"  Anything  Monsieur  the  Marquis  is  pleased  t4 
wish." 

"  How  old  .are  these  girls  ?" 

"  Tlie  oldest  is  seventeen,  and  the  blind  one " 

"  la  one  of  them  blind  t  " 

"  Slie  is." 

"  Ah !  then  I  do   not  see    how    she    could    interert 

"  But  the  other  one  might,  monsieur." 

"  You  are  rijjht !  "  exclaimed  the  marquis  after  a 
short  pause;  "  but  what  should  we  do  with  the  blind 
one  ? '' 

"Never  fear  for  her.  She  can  go  wherever  sh* 
chooses,"  answered  Laflour  in  a  cai'eless  tone.  "  Blind- 
ness ia  a  good  Htook  ill  traiie  in  this  city.  Before  I 
knew  the  liberality  of.tht-  Marquis  de  Prealea,  I  wa« 
often  tempted  tt)  wish  that  I  was  blind  myaelf;  for 
It  is  said  that  the  good  God  has  such  under  his  es 
Per.ial  keeping." 

"  I  am  afraid,  L:ifleur,  that  if  von  were  deaf  and 
dumb,  as  well  as  blind,  the  Lord  would  show  you  very 
little  favor,"  said  the  marquis  with  a  laugh. 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  have  you  any  commands  for 
me?  "rejoined  Lafleur  quitWiy. 

"  Yes.  If  yoi  bring  me  the  girl — without  the  blind 
one,  lememlicr— I  will  pay  you  one  hundred  louis.  If 
you  fail,  I  will  not " 

"  We  will  not  think  of  failure,  my  dear  Marquis," 
quickly  interrupted  Lafleur.     "Where  shall  I  takelh* 

girl?"' 

"  I  am  to  have  a  party  of  friends  at  Bel- Air  this  eve- 
ning, and  von  mav  takp'her  there.  Be  sure  that  yon 
take  her  in  such  a  condition  that  she  can  make  no  dis- 
tnrl>:incp." 

"I  will  use  the  old  remedy,  and  then  you  can  awake 
her  whenever  von  wish,  as  yi>u  have  the  antidote,"  re 
plied  Laflenr  as  li^  ro<<e   to  go. 

"  You  feel  sure  tkit  you   will    sacceedt"  asked  th« 


7571 58 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


Marquis,  who  had  giowu  considerably  interested  iu  the 
scheme. 

•  Peel  sure  t     I  am  as  certain  as  if  the  Marquis  de 


Presles's  louis  were  already  jiugliug  iu  my  pocket," au- /'site  to  the  cripple.     Her  clothes  were   whole,  and  eu 


!; 


swered  Latieur  in  a  contideut  tone 

"  Very  well.     I  shall  expect  you  this  evening."        ' 

"  1  shall  be  there,  my  lord." 

And  with  a  low  bow,  the  villain  who  was  ready  to 
sell  more  than  his  bouI  for  gold,  departed,  leaving  his 
atron  to  gloat  over  the  Surprise  he  had  iu  store  for 
lis  friends,  and,  to  their  shame  be  it,  said,  a  greater 
portion  of  those  friends  were  so-called  ladies,  and  iii 
fttteudance  upon  royalty  itself. 

Lest  our  readers  think  this  an  exceptional  case  in  the 
city  of  Paris  at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  we  will 
re^r  them  to  the  history  of  Prance  for  the  latter  part 
of  the  seventeenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  they  will  find  that  abduction,  murder,  and 
all  manner  of  crime  stalked  abroad  through  that  beauti- 
ful city,  setting  the  law,  and  those  whose  duty  it  was 
to  enforce  the  law,  at  detiauce. 


CHAPTER  II. 


MOTHER  AND  SONS. 


of  the  door  to  the  cabaret,  and  looking  up  be  saw  a 
stout  middle-aged  wotuivn  approaching  him. 

She  was  in  manner  and  appearance  an  exact  oppo- 


"  Knives  to  mend,  scissors  to  grind,  knives  to  grind." 

Among  the  large  class  of  people  who  get  their  living 
from  the  street,  as  it  were,  none  seem  to  have  as  few 
customers  as  the  scis.^ors-grinders,  although  they  are 
among  the  most  useful  of  their  class,  and  it  is  not  strange 
that  on  the  day  that  the  Normandy  coacii  was  to  bring 
a  new  victim  to  the  Marquis  de  Presles,  Pierre  Pro- 
chard,  the  crippled  scissor-grinder,  should  have  tra- 
versed a  large  portion  of  the  city  without  having  an 
opportunity  of  adding  mucli  to  his  little  hoard. 

His  plaintive  cry  of  "Knives  to  mend — scissors  to 
grind,"  was  unlike  a  great  majority  of  the  street  cries, 
inasmuch  as  it  seemed  to  be  the  cry  of  a  wounded  soul 
striving  for  something  beyond  its  reach,  instead  of  the 
rough  unmeaning  jargon  which  venders  give  utterance 
to  in  a  sing  song  manner,  and  which  expresses  nothing 
save  a  confusion  of  guttural  sounds. 

Pierre  Prochard  was  a  young  man  of  about  twenty 
years  of  age;  but  whose  sufferings  caused  tiim  to  have 
the  appearance  of  one  many  years  older.  His  face  was 
pale  and  distorted,  his  form  bent  and  misshapen,  and 
vet  he  was  one  whom  the  careful  observer  would  have 
become  interested  in,  and  the  charitably  disposed,  have 
bestowed  alms  upon,  had  Pierre  not  been  one  of  those 
few  of  his  class  to  whom  alms  hurt  worse  than  a 
curse. 

Weary  and  footsore  the  poor  scissor-grinder  had, 
toward  the  close  of  the  day,  found  himself  near  the 
Pont  Neuf,  and  after  ascertaining  that  there  were  none 
near  who  were  iu  need  of  his  services,  placed  his  ma- 
chine near  one  of  the  buildings  and  was  resting  his 
aching  limbs. 

Chance  had  brought  him  near  the  Normandy  coach 
house,  and  he  resolved  to  await  the  coming  of  theidil- 
igence  in  the  hope  of  earning  a  few  sous  by  carrying 
the  baggage  of  some  traveler. 

There  was  also  in  the  vicinity  a  drinking  saloon 
filled  with  noisy  revellers,  and  whenever  a  fresh  burst 
of  mirth  from  within  was  heard  Pierre  shuddered  visi- 
bly. 

The  cripple  leaned  against  his  machine,  as  though 
long  association  with  the  wood  and  iron  had  endowed 
it  with  sympathy  for  his  suflFe rings.  The  poor  crea- 
ture, although  he  had  a  mother  and  brother,  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  receive  one  word  'of  pity  or 
consolation  from  a  human  beinj;,  and  what  wonder 
he  should  cling  affectionately  to  the  rude  machine  that 
accompanied  him  everywhere,  even  if  it  was  the  work 
or  his  own  hands,  and  endowed  with  action  only  when 
bis  poor  withered  foot  pressed  the  treadle. 

For   sometime  he  had  remained   in   this  position,,         ^ ,,  .> 

•when  he   was  aroused  from  his  reverie  by  the  clo.-'ing  j  with  a  shudder. 


veloped  the  stout  formiu  a  manner  indicative  of  great 
comfort  to  the  wearer.  A  pair  of  small,  hard,  gray 
eyes  iwiuUled  from  the  fat,  round  face,  which  was 
bordered  with  short,  black  hair  that  formed  a  distinct 
beard,  and  one  on  seeing  La  Prochard  for  the  first 
time  would  have  judged  her  to  be  an  easy,  happy  old 
soul,  whose  ouly  care  iu  life  was  to  provide  a  good 
dinner,  and  whose  only  want  was  the  material  for  a 
good  dish  of  gossip. 

A  change  came  over  Pierre's  face  as  lie  saw  her.  A 
change  which  plainly  told  that  this  poor  bent  form  was 
to  receive  some  insult  which  would  cut  deeply  the 
great,  honest  heart  which  it  held. 

In  a  painfully  limping  manner  he  approached  the 
woman,  and  in  a  tender,  iuifiloriug  voice,  said  : 

"  Why  mother  is  that  you  ? '' 

"Yes*  it's  me,  you  lazy,  good-for-nothing."  replied 
-the  affectionate  mother,  as  she  gazed  at  her  deformed 
/  boy,  while  a  look  of  scorn  passed  over  iier  face,  com- 
y  pletely  changing  herinto  a  hard  grasping  old  woman. 
'^  A  look  of  sorrow  came  over  the  poor  cripple's  face 
as  he  put  out  his  hands  as  if  to  ward  oH  the  cruet 
words. 

"  Lazy  ?"  he  repeated.  "  Why,  mother,  I  do  all  fhe 
work  I  can." 

"  Work  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  as  she  smiled 
incredulously.  "  You  call  that  work  ?  Bah!  -why  did 
Heaven  bless  you  with  such  a  beautiful  deformity. 
Why,  to  earn  your  living  by,  you  puny,  limping  crip- 


Ele — and  vou  work  when  all  you  need  to  do  is  to  sit 
ere,  hold  out  your  hand,  and  make  your  fortune." 

And  as  La  Prochard  finished  speaking  she  turned 
away  with  a  gesture  expressive  of  disgust  at  the  hon- 
est living  her  son  was  trying  to  earn. 

A  tear  came  intoPiene'a  eyes  as  his  mother  finished 
speaking,  and  he  answered  sadly. 

"  Mother,  I  cannot  beg,  it  is  not  possible."' 

"Eh?  Not  possible — why  noti"  queried  mother 
Prochard  in  a  sharp,  rasping  voice. 

"  Mother,"  said  Pierre  going  toward  her,  and  lay- 
ing a  thin  wasted  hand  upon  her  arm  ;  when  I  was 
an  infant  you  carried  me  through  the  streets  and 
taught  me  to  repeat  begging  prayers  I  did  not  under- 
stand. Thev  put  money  into  your  pocket,  and  I  knew 
no  shame.  But  now  it  is  different.  You  drove  me  out 
and  bade  me  come  here  to  beg.  When  I  knelt  and 
held  out  my  hand  to  ask  alms  in  the  name  of  the  mis- 
fortunes with  which  Heaven  has  chastised  me,  shame 
choked  my  utterance,  and  I  was  overcome  by  anger  at 
my  own  humiliation.  A  passer-by  looked  on  ine  with 
pity,  and  put  a  triflin><  coin  in  my  hand.  A  great  lump 
came  in  my  throat,  and  mv  eyes"  tilled  with  tears.  No 
mother  I  cannot  beg — I  cannot,  I  c.-innot ! "  , 

And  as  Pierre  finished  speaking,  he  returned  to  his 
machine,  and  leaning  over  it  seemed  to  pour  out  bis 
grief  to  llie  rude  structure.     • 

"  You  undutiful  son,"  exclaimed  the  old  woman  in  a 
burst  of  anger.  "You  had  rather  leave  your  poor 
brother  and  me  to  starve." 

This  unkind  thrust  roused  Pierre,  and  he  answered 
quickly : 

"  My  brother  need  not  starve.  He  has  health  and 
strentrtii,  and  vet  you  support  him  in  idleness." 

"  Why  should  my  beautiful  Jacques  work  1  "  demand- 
ed the  o"l^  wonian'with  u  look  of  disdain  at  the  cripple. 
"My  handsome  boy, -the  very  imaffe  of  his  poor,  dead 
father  that  those  scoundrels  of  the  law  robbed  me  of." 

"  He  suffereil  death  for  a  murder  of  which  they 
found  him  guilty,"  timidly  suggested  Pierre. 

"  And  can  I  look  to  you  to  avenge  himl"  asked  the 
old  woman  m  derision.  "  No,  no  ;  my  handsome 
Jacques  will  do  that  one  of  these  days.  He's  no  milk- 
sop.    Nothing  iVightens  him." 

No!  not  even  ti'.e  sight  of  blood,"  answered  Pierre 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS, 


"Shut  np;  von  are  good  fornotliing  but  to  be  hon- 
est," screamed  Mother  Frochani,  iu  afuiy.     '"I  hate 

houest  people  ;  scum  that  imposes  on  the  poor '' 

-  At  this  moment  the  old  woman's  tirade  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  appearance  of  seveial  people  who  were 
coming  toward  them,  aud  changing  her  voice  sudden- 
ly from  one  of  deepest  anger  for  a  wliining  tone  habit- 
tual  to  professional  beggars,  she  went  toward  them  with 
outstretched  hanils,  repealing  the  words  she  had  so 
vainly  endeavored  to  force  Pierre  ro  lepeat. 

"  Chaiity,  good  people.  Charity  for  the  love  of 
Heaven  !  " 

The  poor  cripple  went  back  to  his  machine  with  a 
despondent  air,  and  poured  out  his  troubles  in  an  un- 
dertone to  thai  companion. 

"  Perhaps  she  ia  right,  I  am  good  for  nothing  except 
to  be  honest.  Alas!  I  have  ueverhad  any  one  to  teach 
me." 

Pierre'8  musings  were  destined  to  be  disturbed  on 
this  evening,  for  he  heard  a  k)ud,  rough  voice  behind 
him  which  caused  him  to  start  with  fear. 

It  was  that  of  his  brother  Jacques. 

The  liandsome  Jacques,  as  his  mother  had  called 
hiiii,  and  if  a  good  specimen  of  a  ruffian  may  be  called 
liandsome,  then  Jacques  was  a  perfect  beauty. 

He  was  a  tall,  strong,  well-formed  fellow  of  some 
twenty-four  years,  with  a  face  that  betokened  brutal- 
ity in  every  "feature. 

He  was  dressed  with  a  view  to  effect:  wearing  the 
liowered  waistcoat  so  much  m  vague  at  that  period. 
A  red  handkerchief  was  bound  around  his  head,  and 
on  it  was  a  wide  brimmed  hat,  blue  stockings  reaching 
to  liis  knees,  and  in  hia  tars  hung  large  gold  hoops 
which  were  supposed  to  lend  an  air  of  distinction  to 
\Jlie  whole  costume.  In  liis  mouth  was  a  black  clay 
pipe,  and  his  whole  bearing  was  that  of  a  man  who  is 
—  well  satisfied  witli  himself,  and  who  expected  the  rest 
of  the  world  to  admire  him. 

"  Hello !  Here  is  the  old  woman  and  her  precious 
abortion  of  a  son,"'  was  his  fiibt  greeting,  as  he  Jaugh- 
I'l)  heartily  at  the  sight  of  poor  Pierre  bending  over 
liis  work.     "  Has  Marianne  come  yet,  mother  ?  " 

'■  Not  yet,  my  son,"  replied  the  old  woman,  gazing  at 
her  son  in  admiration. 

"  Never  mind,  she'll  come  in  time,''  lie  said,  half  to 
himself  and  half  to  his  mother.  Then  as  he  heard  a 
noise  from  the  crowd  he  had  just  left  in  the  cabaret, 
he  cried  out :  "  You  can  order  eveiytliing  you  want, 
wine,  brandy,  anything,  I'll  stand  it. 

Alarmed  at  this  outbreak  of  liberality  on  Iier  son's 
part,  Mother  Prochard  asked  quickly 

"  My  son,  are  you  going  to  pay  ?  Have  you  found  a 
purse  i" 

"  No  ,  but  Marianne  has.  I  have  ordered  her  to 
bring  me  some  money,  and  she'll  do  it.'' 

This  answer  appeared  to  please  the  old  woman,  for 
*^6he  clasped  her  hands  as  if  in  an  ecstaoy  of  joy  and  ad- 
miration, and  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice: 

"  Isn't  he  in  agood  humor  V 

"Como  here,  Pierre,"  ordered  Jacques,  in  astern 
voice. 

The  cripple  looked  up,  and  for  an  instant  seemed 
hesitatint;  whether  to  obev  or  not;  but  a  warning 
look  from  his  brother  deciilcil  him,  and  ho  went  slow- 
ly towards  the  man  who  knew  neither  pity  nor  love 
for  his  afflicted  brother. 

"Look  here,  cripple  !  Good  children  always  give 
an  account  of  Iheir  eaj-nings  to  their  parents,"  said 
Jacques,  in  a  sarcastic  tone.  Then  turning  to  the  old 
woman,  he  asked  :     "  Isn't  that  so,  moilier  ?  " 

"Certainly,  my  lamb.  You  have  excellent  princi- 
ples," and  again  the  ol<l  woman  compaivd  one  son 
with  the  other,  as  she  had  done  hundreds  of  iiuies 
every  day  since  their  biiili. 

But  poor  Pierre  looked  up  piteously  to  his  brother, 
and  said 

"  When  I  give  you  au  account  of  my  earninge  yon 
pocket  all."  *  vi>- 


"  Well,  what  if  I  do  ?  "  was  Jacques'  brutal  answer. 

"  Itia  unjust," said  Pierre.     "It's  so  like " 

"That's  enough,"  interrupted  Jacques.  "I  want 
your  money,  but  none  of  your  fine  speeches.  How 
much  have  you  got?" 

And  lie  made  a  gesture  as  though  to  strike  his  broth- 
er should  his  demand  not  be  complied  with  quickly 
enough. 

Pierre  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  resist,  and  drawing 
out  a  handful  of  small  coins  he  proceeded  to  count 
tliem. 

"Twenty  two  livres,  seven  sous,  and  six  deniers,'' 
he  answei-ed,  as  soon  as  he  ascertained  the  amount. 

Jacques  took, the  money  from  Pierre's  hand  with  a 
motion  which  caused  the  cripple  to  whine  with  pain, 
and  as  he  put  them  in  bis  capacious  pocket,  he  said  with 
the  tone  of  a  man  who  has  been  defrauded  of  his  just; 
dues. 

"And  all  this  fuss  about  that.  Why,  what  have 
vou  been  doinj<foru  whole  week  with  those  spiudle 
legs  and  arms?'' 

"I  have  walked  the  streets  from  morning  until 
night,  with  my  wheel  upon  my  back,"  answered 
Pierre,  as  if  eager  to  convince  his  brother  that  he  had 
not  been  idle.  "  I  have  lived  upon  bread  and  water. 
I  could  do  no  more." 

"Well,  your  trade  don'tpny,"  was  Jacques  rough  an- 
swer.    "  I  must  find  you  something  better." 

"Something  better?  You?  No!  no!"  exclaimed 
Pierre  as  he  moved  away  trembling  in  every  limb  at 
the  very  tliought  of  being  obliged  to  work  after  hia 
brother's  fashion. 

Jacques  did  not  fancy  Pierre's  rejoinder,  and  would 
have  heaped  some  fresh  insult  upon  the  cripple,  had 
not  La  Prochard  come  forward,  anxious  to  show  her 
favorite  how  well  she  hail  done. 

"  I  have  saved  three  livres  and  eighteen  sous.  Put 
them  with  Pierre's,  and  that  makes " 

"Oh,  never  mind  how  much  it  makes,"  said  Jacques 
impatiently,  as  he  took  the  money  from  his  mother's 
uiuvilling  grasp;  "but  I'll  take  it  on  principle." 

Then  turning  to  his  brother  he  said  in  a  voice  which 
was  intended  to  convey  his  good  feelings. 

"  Come,  cripple,  let's  drink,"  and  at  ihesame  time  h« 
moved  towards  the  carbaret. 

"  No,''  answered  Pierre  sadly  ;  "  drink  always  af 
fects  my  head." 

Jacques  gave  utterance  to  a  coarse  laugh,  as  hw 
said  : 

"  Why,  who  would  tliink  we  are  bi-others.  Yot;. 
have  the  blood  of  a  sheep  in  your  veins.  Y^ou're  a  dis- 
grace to  the  family,  while  1  boast  the  blood  of  a  Pro- 
chard, and  the  Frochards  have  been  outlaws  for  an 
hundred  and  fifty  years.' 

This  burst  of  boasting  was  again  too  much  for  Mo- 
ther Ftoehard. 

She  was  obliged  to  give  vent  to  her  feelings  by 
rising  her  hands  to  heaven,  and  exclaiming: 

"Ah,  what  a  man!  I  love  him — he's  so  like  his 
father." 

"Come  along,  then,  if  yon  love  me,"  said  Jacques, 
who  had  heard  his  uiother'a  fervent  exclamation,  "  for 
I  am  thirsty." 

As  thev  opened  the  door  of  the  cabaret  he  turned 
again  to  Pierre,  who  was  again  bending  over  his  wheel 
and  asked: 

".Vie  you  cominy  with  us  !  " 

"  No, 'iKi,"  answered  the  cripple,  ami  as  he  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  he  adde<i,  hut  not  until  bis  brother 
and  molhei  liad  disappeared  within  the  shop  where 
thev  would  spend  his'hard  earnings  for  drink.  "There's 
the' Normandy  coach  just  arriving.  1  will  run  and  see 
if  there's  not  a  chance  to  make  a  few  sous." 

And  Pierip  linstetied  towards  the  coach  as  fast  as  his 
crippled  liml>s  would  admit  of.  little  thinking  what  the 
dili^renee  would  brini;  that  day.  and   how  closely   hia 
life  would  be  connected  with  one  ol  tlie  occupants   at         \ 
!  least. 


ill 


am  III 01^ 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  ODTCAST. 


As  Pierre  said,  the  Normaudy  coach  iiad  last  arrived ; 
'l>iit  the  poor  cripple  saw  at  a  glance  that  his  chance  of 
•araing  a  few  aous  was  hopeless. 

The  only  passengers  that  alighted  from  the  ricketty 
«ld  coach,  were  the  two  young  girls  whom  we  have 
seen  in  onr  first  chapter. 

They  alighted  in  a  dazed  sort  of  manner,  as  if  the 
bustle  and  din  of  the  great  city  had  confused  thera, 
and  Henriette  leading  Louise  by  the  hand,  entered  the 
open  space  in  front  of  the  coach  office. 

A  bench  (which  from  the  numerous  marks  of  knives 
and  pencils  upon  it,  showed  that  it  served  as  a  resting 
place  tor  the  loungers  who  always  cluster  around 
places  of  this  kind,  and  talk  horsey  slang  while  admir- 
lug  the  noble  brutes  that  form  the  establishment  or  the 
proprietor)  was  just  outside  the  office  door,  aud  to 
this  Henriette  led  her  blind  sister. 

"Sit  here,  Louise,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  sweet  voice, 
which  told  all  the  love  she  felt  for  the  afflicted  girl. 

Henriette  looked  vainly  around  for  the  relative 
whom  they  expected  to  meet ;  but  not  a  person  was 
to  be  seen. 

She  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  anxiety  ;  but  she 
bravely  strove  to  hide  her  feelings  from  Louise. 

But  the  blind  girl  was  anxious  as  well  as  Henrietta. 

"lam  surprised  that  Monsieur  Martinis  not  here 
to  meet  us,"'  she  said  half  to  herself. 

Henriette's  qaick  ear  caught  the  murmur,  and  she 
endeavored  to  divert  her  siater'i  mind. 

"Oh,  he'll  come  soon,"  she  said,  reassuringly.  Then 
to  occupy  the  blind  girl's  mind  with  other  matters 
than  their  own  condition,  she  added  :  "  Oh  !  Louise, 
Paris  is  beautiful.  Oh,  my  poor  sister,  if  you  could 
only  see  its  wonders !" 

''^  Tel  I  me  what  you  see.  Where  are  we?"  asked 
Louise,  excitedly. 

''  In  an  open  square  at  the  end  of  a  beautiful  bridge," 
answered  Henriette,  looking  around  her,  "  which  has 
a  magnificent  statue  in  the  middle." 

"  That  must  be  the  Pout  Neuf,"  said  Louise  as  she 
remembered  the  picture  which  Henriette  had  called 
op  to  her  mind.     "  Papa  used  to  speak  of  it." 

"  And  on  this  side  I  can  see  two  great  towers,"  con- 
tinned  the  beaatiful  girl  who  was  thus  supplying  the 
place  of  her  sister's  sight.     "  It  must  be  Notre  Dame." 

"  Noire  Dame,"  repeated  Louise,  sadly,  as  she  arose 
from  her  seat.  "  How  I  wish  I  could  see  it.  It  was 
on  that  spot,  that  I,  a  helpless  infant,  was  left  to  per- 
ish," and  as  the  blind  girl  thus  recalled  the  thoughts 
of  the  past,  the  tears,  unbidden,  came  to  her  eyes,  aud 
the  sightless  orbs  were  turned  towards  the  spot  she 
would  see,  as  if  they  would  burst  their  filmy  vail  aud, 
forced  by  her  grief,  gaze  upon  the  spot  where  she  had 
been  left  to  die  of  cold  or  starvation.  "  It  was  there 
your  dear  father  found  me.  But  for  him  I  should  have 
died — ^perhaps — perhaps  that  would  have  been  better," 
she  aaded  in  a  tone  of  anguish  that  was  almost  a 
wail,  80  much  misery  was  there  embodied  in  it. 

"  My  darling  sister !  "  exclaimed  Henriette,  "  why 
do  you  say  that?" 

"Because,"  replied  Louise  in  the  same  sad  tone,  "I 
should  not  have  lived  to  become   blind  and  unhappy." 

"  Louise,  do  not  speak  thus,"  said  Henriette  as  she 
clasped  her  sister  in  her  arms,  "  Onr  dear  parents  lov- 
ed us  both  alike — you  were  their  consolation  and  hap- 
piness, and  it  was  their  first  grief  when  Heaven  de- 
prived you  of  your  sight." 

'Misfortune  pursues  me,  sister,"  replied  Louise,  re- 
fusing to  be  comforted,  "  for  scarcely  had  this  afflic- 
tion befallen  me  when  we  were  left  orphans  without 
help  or  friends." 

"  No,  no,   dear    Louise  ! "     interrupted    Henriette, 
"not    without  friends  I  hope       I  have  turned  all  we 
possessed  into  money,  and  we  are  in  this  great  Paris, 
where  there  are  skilful  doctors  who  will  soon    restore  i 
my  poor  Louise's  eyes  to  their  old   time    brightness,"  ■ 


and  there  was  in  Henriette's  voice    something    which 
ever  had  the  power  to  cheer  her  afflicted  sister. 

''  Heaven  grant  that  your  hopes  may  be  realized.' 
said  Louise  more  hopefully.  Then  thinking  of  tiieir 
present  situation  again,  she  asked.  "  But  where  can 
Monsieur  Maitin  be  1  Why  aoes  be  not  come  for 
nsl" 

For  a  moment  Henriette  had  forgotten  the  forsaken 
condition  in  which  they  were.  Alone  in  Paris,  with- 
out frieuds,  or  even  acquaintances,  and  unless  the 
relative  whom  they  were  expecting  should  come  for 
them,  what  could  they  dol 

Henriette  hardly  dared  to  think  of  such  an  alterna- 
tive, and  more  to  satisfy  her  sister  than  from  any  ex- 
pectation of  finding  him,  she  proposed  to  go  aud  look 
for  Monsieur  Martni. 

As  Henriette  went  to  look  for  Monsieur  Martin,  a 
young  woman  of  about  twenty  years  of  age,  entered 
the  open  space  in  front  of  the  cabaret,  and  stood  gazing 
sadly  at  the  swift-ruuniug  river. 

Her  face  was  that  of  a  woman  who  had  ouce  been 
beautiful;  but  who  was  now  pursued  by  remorse  and 
sorrow.  Her  garments  were  scrupulously  clean  and 
neat;  but  with  no  attempt  at  display,  and  she  wander- 
ed about  like  one  having  no  aim  or  purpose  save  to  es- 
cape from  her  own  thoughts. 

She  stood  silent  and  motionless  as  if  she  were  some 
quaint  figure  of  wood  or  stone  rather  than  a  woman  in 
whose  breast  love  and  hate  could  wage  eternal  con- 
flict, so  absorbed  was  she  in  her  bitter  thoughts,  that  her 
face  expressed  her  feelings  as  well  as  words  could  have 
done.  Henriette  retuiued  to  her  sister  with  the  infor- 
mation that  their  relative  could  not  be  seen,  and  just  at 
that  moment  a  burst  of  laughter  and  music  came  from 
the  half-open  door  of  the  caoaret,  which  prevented  the 
wanderer  from  hearing  Heurietie's  approach  or  hier 
voice. 

Among  the  voices  which  could  be  heard  from  the 
drinking  saloon,  Jacques  Frochard's  coarse,  brutal 
tones  could  be  distinguisived,  and  as  she  heard  it,  the 
poor  young  woman  started  as  tliough  Stung  by  a  viper. 
"  Yea,  it  is  his  voice,"  she  said  as  she  turned  so  as  to 
face  the  door  of  the  cabaiet,  "his  voice  singing  and 
laughing.  Aye!  drink  and  carouse!  forget  her  whose 
heart  you  have  broken.  Enjoy  yourself  while  the  vic- 
tim of  your  biutality  seeks  the  only  refuge  left  her — 
death  !  The  river  is  near,  one  plunge  and  it  will  all  be 
over.  May  my  dying  shriek  of  despair  ring  ia  your 
ears  as  a  never-ending  curse. 

And  in  the  extremity  of  her  anguish  the  wanderer 
rushed  toward  the  wall  aud  the  sudden  death  she 
sought.  Goaded  by  despair  the  u'lhappy  woman  was 
about  to  yield  up  her  life  to  her  Maker  in  all  its  sin,  for- 
getting that  if  it  was  too  vile  for  this  world  what  would  • 
be  its  appearance  there  where  all  was  holy. 

As  she  was  about  to  commit  this  rash  act,  her  wild 
and  almost  maniacal  gaze  rested  on  several  persons  who 
were  passing  near,  and  she  drew  back  eliuadering. 

"  No,  it  is  not  yet  dark  enough,"  she  muttered,  '•  I 
should  be  seen  and  perhaps  saved." 

As  she  said  this  she  clasped  her  hands  to  her  head, 
and  seeniiugiy  bewildered  by  the  conflict  of  passions 
sank  down  upon  the  cold,  damp  pavement. 

Henriette,  who  had  been  regarding  the  strange  ap- 
pearing woman,  exclaimed  as  she  fell : 

"  What  can  be  the  matter  with  that  woman  ?  She 
has  fallen  ;  she  must  be  ill." 

"  Go  to  her  and  see  if  you  can  aid 'her,  <!<>.  go.  lis- 
ter !' exclaimed  Louise,  quickly,  and  in  her  excite- 
ment rising  from  the  seat  and  endeavoring  to  grope  her 
way  to  the  prostrate  woman. 

Like  some  angel  of  mercy  Henriette    went  to   the 
world  weaiy  woman,  and  in  a  voice  which  resembled 
a  silvery  chime  of  vesper  bells,  so  gratefully  did  they 
fall  upon  the  wanderer's  ears,  asked  : 
"Pardon  me,  madam  ;  can  I  do  anything  for  youl  ' 
"You  can  do  nothing." 
"  You  seem  exhausted ;  are  you  suffering  ?  " 
"Yes,  yes  ;  I  am  suffering  !'' 
As  she  said  this,  thus  invited  the  pity,  as  n  were,  of 


; 


THE  TWO  OKPi^A^•S. 


**I-e«voiue!    I..eave  me!  and  do  not  at.emrtt  to  save  me  I ' 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


the  good  angel  beside  her,  she  arose  from  the  ground, 
and  Louise,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  short  con- 
versHtion,  eagerly  said  to  Heurieite — and  there  was  a 
world  of  pathos  in  her  voice — 

"  She  said  that  with  a  voice  full  of  misery  and  des- 
pair.    "Help  her,  sister." 

Henriette  needed  not  to  be  prompted  to  do  a  char- 
itable action  ;  but  her  sister's  words  caused  her  to  re- 
double her  efforts  to  assist  the  poor  woman. 

"  Madam,  have  confidence  in  us,"  she  said  kindly. 
"We  are  not  rich  ;  but  if  we  can  help  you " 

"  I  have  already  told  you,"  interrupted  the  woman 
almost  fiercely,  "  that  I  want  nothing.  There  are 
griefs  that  cnnuot  be  consoled ;  sufferings  that  cannot 
be  alleviated.     I  only  wish  to — to " 

"  YoQ  wish  to  die  !"  exclaimed  Louise,  as  she  clasp- 
ed hsr  hands  in  an  agony  of  griet  at  the  thought  of  the 
other's  sutterings. 
'V;   "Who  told  you  that  ?"  asked  tne    woman    passion- 
'  ately.     "  How  do  you  know  I  want  to  die  V 
*      "  I  feel  it  while    1    listen  to    you."     answered    the 
blind  girl,  who  standiny  with  her    hands  clasped,  re- 
sembled more  one  of  Raphael's  Madonnas   thar.  a   sim- 
ple country  girl.       ''Do    you  not  know  that  we  who 
are  blind   whom  no   external  object    distracts,    listei; 
^  w'ith  our  whole  being.'" 

"  Tell  us  your  troubles,"  said  Henriette  aoothingly. 
"  Perhaps  we  can  relieve  them." 

The  woman  gazed  sadly  at  the  fair  girl  who  would 
thus  take  another's  sorrows  upon  herself, in  the  hope 
of  lightening  the  unhappy  one's  burden. 

"  Why  should  1  tell  you  when  you  do  not  even 
know  me?"  slie  said  slowly,  and  at  the  same  time  as 
if  she  wished  to  pour  out  all  her  troubles.  "  You  have 
never  seen  me  before,  and  yet  you  pity  me.  No,  no  ; 
there  is  no  help  for  me.  Leave  me,  leave  me,  and  do 
uot attempt  to  save' me." 
.  ^-'feshe  finished  speaking,  the  unhappy  woman  turn- 
ed awav,  and  would  have  lef:  the  place,  but  that  she 
heard  Heuriette's  voice. 

"  Stay,"  she  said  in  a  pleading  tone.  "  For  the  love 
of  heaven  do  not  leave  us  thus,"  entreated  Louise. 

The  poor  woman  was  not  proof  against  these  plead- 
ings, and  yet  she  hesitated  to  open  Jier  heart,  wicked 
as  it  was,  to  these  pure  girls. 

"  I  am  pursued  by  the  officers  of  the  law,"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "  I  have  not  strength  to  fly  farther,  and 
they  will  arrest  me." 

"  What  have  you  donel  "  asked  Henriette  pityingly. 

"  I  have  stolen,"  answered  the  woman,  and  as  she 
saw  the  young  girls  shudder,  she  added  quickly  as  if 
in  extenuation  "  I  have  stolen  money  committed  to 
my  ciuo.  All  the  savings  of  a  poor  working  girl.  I 
stole  it  for  him,  lor  a  wretch  wuom  i  fear  ;  but  whom 
alas,  I  love.' 

At  .-this  moment  Jacoues'  voice  was  heard  from  the 
fabaret,  and  it  sounded  like  some  mocking  fiend  ex- 
ulting over  his  triumphs. 

"  Good  joke — a  capital  joke." 

What  demon  could  have  put  into  his  mouth  those 
words,  which  probably  would  have  expressed  exactly 
his  idea  of  the  repentance  of  the  girl  whom  he  had  so 
wronged. 

''  Listen,  said  the  woman  quickly,  while  a  look  of 
pain  passed  over  her  face,  "  that  is  his  voice.  He  is 
there  wasting  in  debauchery  the  money  purchased  by 
my  crime.  When  I  am  away  from  him  my  reason  re- 
tnrns,  and  I  only  feel  the  hate  his  baseness  inspires. 
Alas!  when  he  speaks  to  me  uiy  hale  disappears  ;  I 
cower  and  ti'emblo  before  him,  and  am  his  slave.  I 
have  stolen  for  him,  and  I  believe  I  would  kill  at  his 
.bidding." 

She  remaine<l  silent  foramonu-nt,  and  then  hidinir 
her  face  in  her  hands  burst  into  uii  agony  of  tears,  and 
exclaimed : 

"  No  !  no  !  it  is  better  that  I  should  die." 

"Tou  cannot  atone  for  a  fault  by  committing  a 
crime,"  said  Henriette- 


"  If  J  am  found  they  will  arrest — imprison  me  !"  ex- 
claimed  the  woman,   clasping  her  hands. 

"  And  repentance  will  pay  the  debt  you  owe  to  Hea- 
ven,'' added  the  blind  girl's  low  voice,  like  a  song 
sweet  and  vailed. 

"Heaven!  Do  you  believe  there  is  a  Heaven'?'' 
asked  the  woman,  almost  roughly,  hiding  her  realfeel- 
intjs  behind  a  mask  of  liruscpcerie. 

The  two  girls  started  as  if  they  had  received  a  blow, 
and  their  faces  expressed  the  sorrow  they  felt  at  this 
implied  atheism. 

"Do  1  believe  there  is  a  Heaven?''  asked  Henriette 
in  astonishment. 

"  I   cannot   believe   that  there  is  a  Heaven  for  out-  , 
casts  like  me." 

"  Oh,  unhappy  woman  !''  exclaimed  Louise  in  tones 
of  deepest  sorrow. 

Then  drawing  some  money  from  her  little  hoard,  she 
handed  it  to  the  woman. 

But  although  she  could  receive  words  of  encourage- 
ment and  advice  from  the  orphans,  and  be  grateful,  she 
could  not  take  their  money,  and  she  drew  back  quick- 
ly, exclaiming  petulantly ; 

"  No,  no." 

"  Do  not  refuse,  I  implore  you,"  entreated  Louise, 
as  she  turned  towards  the  woman  with  an  imploring 
look  npoir  her  face. 

Thus  entreated  the  woman  could  do  no  less  than 
comply  with  their  request,  and  as  she  took  the  small 
amount  of  money,  which  was  more  valuable  than 
priceless  gems  because  of  the  sympathy  which  accom- 
panied it,  she  said  : 

"Now  I  know  that  you  are  right.  There  must  be  a 
Heaven,  for  has  it  not  sent  two  angels  to  succor  and  to 
save  me." 

And  turning  aside,  the  unhappy  woman  wiped  th» 
tears  away,  which  this  kind  action  had  caused  to 
flow 

"  Courage,  have  courage."  said  Henriette,  as  she 
laid  her  little  hand  caressingly  on  the  woman's  arm. 

"  Yes,  yes,  1  will  have  courage.  Pll  fly  from  Paris, 
and  from  him.  I  wish  I  could  give  my  life  for  you,'' 
she  said,  as  she  took  the  hands  of  the  two  orphans,  and 
pressed  them  to  her  lips.  "  May  Heaven  bless  you, 
farewell,"  she  sobbed  as  she  turned  to  go. 

But  she  had  not  seen  the  door  of  the  cabaret  open, 
nor  did  she  see  Jacques,  as  he  stood  just  outside  the 
door. 

"Ah,  ha,"  he  chuckled.  "Madam  Marianne  at 
ast." 

Then  as  he  saw  the  woman  moving  quickly  away, 
he  cried : 

"  Marianne !" 

The  sound  of  that  voice  was  too  potent  for  the  poor 
woman. 

■•  Where  are  you  going  ?"  demanded  Jacques,  coarse- 
Iv. 

"Away  from  yon,  whom  I  hope  never  to  see  again," 
answered  Marianne,  firmly. 

Jacques  went  towards  her  quickly,  and  laid  his  hand 
roughly  upon  her  trembling  arm. 

••  Ba"h  !"  he  said,  savagely',  "you  don't  want  to  see 
me?  Then  why  did  you  stop  when  I  called  ?  What 
makes  vour  haiid  tremble  ?" 

"  It  does  not  tremble,"  answered  Marianne,  trying 
to  appear  firm.  "  I  have  found  strength  to  resist  you. 
I  am  ashamed  of  the  life  I  lead  and  of  the  infamy  into 
which  you  have  plunged  me." 

"  Nonsense  !"  exclaimed  Jacques  as  he  went  towards 
the  dour  of  the  cabaret.  "  Put  all  that  stutl  out  of 
your  head  and  follow  me." 

"I  will  not !"  said  the  poor  woman  as  she  turned 
again  to  go. 

"  You  must,"  insisted  Jacques  with  an  angry  gest- 
ure, and  then  as  she  did  not  move,  he  added:  "  Come. 
Do  yon  hear?'' 

For  a  moment  Marianne  was  on  the  point  of  obey- 
ing him  ;  but  one  glance  at  the  two  young  girls  who 


8 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


were  anxicurtly  waiting  her  decision  seemed  to  give 
her  eirength.  and  hFih  answered  boldly  : 

"  Yea,  I  hear,  and  I  refuse.     1  will  not  obey  you."' 

"  You  want  uie  to  persuade  you  in  the  usual  wav, 
eh,  do  you  ]"  cried  Jacques  brutally,  as  he  weut  quick- 
ly towards  the  shrinking  woman. 

••  You  slwU  not,  never  again  !"  exclaimed  Marianne, 
,  as  sbie  endeavored  to  escape  from  his  cruel  grasp. 

ijiit  she  was  too  late,  Jacques  grasped  her  by  the 
hair  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  clasped 
her  slender  throat,  and  in  a  moment  nis  brawny  hands 
would  have  choked  her  senseless,  but  that  he  heard 
the  heavy  tramp  of  armed  men  approaching. 

In  an  instant  he  had  released  her,  and  Marianne 
fushing  up  to  the  guard  exclaimed: 

'•  Monsieur,  arrest  me,  I  am  a  thief." 

Jacques  was  petrified  with  astonishment,  while  the 
two  orphans  a;vaited  with  beating  hearts  the  denoue- 
ment of  this  strange  drama. 

"  Arrest  you  1  Who  are  you  1"  asked  the  officer,  in 
no  little  surprise. 

'•  May  name  is  Marianne  Vauthier.  Officers  are  in 
«earch  of  me.  I  escaped  from  them  an  hour  ago."  said 
Marianne,  hurriedly,  as  if  she  feared  her  courage 
would  give  way.  "  Now  I  wish  to  deliver  myself  to 
justice. 

"  She  has  gone  crazy,"  ejaculated  Jacques,  as  he 
moved  to  a  convenient  distiince  in  order  to  make  his 
escape,  should  she  denounce  liim. 

"  Marianne  Vautliier,"  said  the  officer,  reading  from 
''  paper  which  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket,  "accused 
of  theft " 

''Of  which  I  am  guilty,"  interrupted  the  woman. 

"  Well,  if  you  confess  it  I  must  take  you  La  Salpe- 
triere,"  said"  the  offic-er,  half  doubting  her  sanity,  as 
he  motioned  her  between  two  files  of  soldiers. 

•'  My  expiation  begins,''  said  Marianne,  as  she  pass- 
ed l)y  where  the  two  orphans  were  standing.  "Pray 
tli;it  Heaven  may  give  me  courage  to  complete  it." 

The  soldiers  moved  off,  bearing  the  self-convicted 
woman  with  them,  while  Henriotte  and  Louise  could 
only  pray  silently  that  her  expiation  |might  be  the 
means  of  restoring  her  to  the  place  she  had  lost  through 
her  unhappy  love. 

Jacques  remained  looking  after  the  departing  pris- 
oner for  a  few  moments,  and  then  giving  vent  to  a 
low  whistle  expresive  of  surprise,  regret,  and  perhaps, 
«hame,  disappeared  in  to  the  cabaret,  saying  as  he  en- 
tered : 

"  To  Salpetriere.     She's  a  fool!" 

And  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  joining  his  comrades 
in  their  debanchery,  with  not  a  thought  of  the  unfor- 
tunate girl,  who,  lor  his  sake,  had  committed  a  crime 
for  which  she  must  suSer  long  weary  months,  perhaps 
years. 

And  while  he  was  tnns  occupying  his  time,  the  two 
orphans  awaited  the  coming  of  their  relative. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  ABDUCTION. 


For  a  few  moments  after  Marianne  had  been  carried 
away  by  the  guards  the  two  orphans  stood  silent. 

Tliey  had,  in  the  few  moments  tiiat  had  elapsed  since 
their  anival  in  Paris,  seen  more  misery  in  one  poor 
girl's  life  than  they  had  thought  coulu  exist,  from  evil 
causes,  in  the  whole  city. 

Having  been  born  and  reared  in  the  quiet  Norman 
town,  they  knew  none  of  that  misery  which  nriwes 
from  sin,  and  judging  others  by  their  own  pure  mid 
spotless  lives,  were  shocked  beyond  measure  by  Ma- 
rianne's brief  confession  of  guilt. 

For  the  moment  nothing  could  have  presented  so 
touching  a  sight  as  the  two  young  girls,  standing 
r  asped  in  each  other's  arms,  nd  striving  to  comfort 
each  other  in  their  grief  at  Marianne's  sad  fate. 

Although,  as   the  poor   on  cast   had   said,  tliey  had 


never  before  seen  her,  nevertrieless,  from  out  their 
pure,  tender  hearts  went  a  great  flood  of  sympathy 
and  sorrow  for  the  poor  creature  who,  forsaken  in  her 
hour  of  trouble  by  the  man  for  whose  sake  she  had 
^iet  upon  lierself  the  brand  of  infamy,  had  now  com- 
menced her  dreary  life  of  expiation. 

Louise  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  Her 
quick  ear  had  caught  the  sound  of  Pierre's  footsteps 
as  he  came  back  from  a  neighboring  street,  and  she 
trembled  i.ivoliintaiily. 

'Heniiette,  wliere  are  you?  "she  eaid  in  a  voice 
which  betiayed  lier  emotion. 

"You  are  frightened,  sister,"  answered  Henriette, 
looking  anxiously  at  the  blind  girl. 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  am  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  Louise,  as  she 
grasped  her  sister's  arm  as  if  to  receive  some  assurance 
of  her  safety. 

"  And  the  night  is  falling  fast,"  said  Henriette  to 
herself,  beginning  to  feel  seriously  alarmed  on  account 
of  the  non-appearance  of  their  relative. 

During  this  time  Pierre  had  remained  by  his  wheel, 
busying  himself  in  performing  some  trifling  work,  and 
listening  intently  to  the  conversation,  that  he  might 
know  if  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  render  them 
some  assistance. 

Those  to  whom  fate  has  been  unkind,  are  even  more 
ready  to  assist  their  suffering  fellows  than  one  who 
has  received  all  the  gifts  a  kind  Providence  can  bestow 
upon  them. 

The  unprotected  condition  of  the  two  girls  had,  to 
the  poor  cripple,  something  touching  in  it,  and  he 
longed  to  assist  them ;  or  at  least  to  s^iy  some  comfort- 
ing word. 

"Why  does  not  Monsieur  Martin  cornel  "  exclaim- 
ed Louise,  giving  herself  up  entirely  to  her  fears. 

As  she  spoke,  and,  almost  as  if  in  response  to  her 
question,  a  man  advanced  toward  them,  cominy  :~.g- 
parently  from  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  buildings.         -  ^ 

We  have  no  need  to  describe  him,  for  the  reader  has 
met  him  before.  ~N 

It  was  Lafleur. 

"Here  I  am,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  as  if  in  answer     , 
to  Louise's  agonized  question.  ---^ 

Henriette  gave  utterance  to   a  cry  which  was  at  the  \ 
same  time  expressive  of  relief  and  fear.  ■■     ,.  ,+-(  \ 

She  disliked  even  the  appearance  of  the  man,  and 
instiuctively  she  recoiled  from  his  approach.  J 

Louise's  "At  last,"  was  as  significant  as  her  sister'a-^'^ 
exclamation. 

She  could  not  see  the  approaching  man's  form,  bat 
she  could  hear  his  voice,  and  she  could  distinguish  a 
peculiar  tone  which  caused  her  to  fear  this  man,  on 
whom  she  believed  that  she  was  dependent  for  sup- 
port. 

Pierre  saw  that  the  friend  whom  the  girls  were  ex- 
pecting had  arrived,  and  taking  up  the  watercan  from 
iiis  wheel,  he  limped  slowly  down  the  long  fligh.j_ot 
stone  steps  which  led  to  the  river,  to  fill  it.  ^~^ 

He  could  not  repress  a  sigh  as  he  went,  thinking 
that  he  should  never  again  see  the  fair  young  girls 
who  wei'e  so  pure  and  holy,  that  while  in  their  pres- 
ence it  seemed  to  him  he  was  standing  in  a  bright, 
glorious  ray  of  sunlight. 

"  We  began  to  be  very  anxious,"  said  Henriette,  as 
the  man  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

Lafleur  could  not  meet  the  gaze  of  the  pure  girl 
against  whom  he  was  about  to  commit  so  great  and 
deadly  a  wrong,  and  holding  his  head  in  such 
a  position  that  his  eyes  might  not  meet  hers,  he   said: 

"You  must  excuse  me,  for  I  live  at  a  great  distance 
from  here." 

"  A  great  distanced"  exclaimed  Henriette  in  surprise. 
"  Why  we  were  told  that  your  house  was  but  a  few 
steps  from  the  bi  idije,"  said"  Louise  excitedly,  at  thus 
receiving  such  a  direct  confirmation  to  the  fears  which 
his  voice  had  aroused  in  her  mind. 

Lafleur  saw  at  once  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  He 
was  tliinkiiiir  of  Bel-.\ir,  and  had  for  the  moment  for- 
ifotten  the  part  he  wah  playinar.  And  in  his  endeavor 
to    rectify    his    error   quickly,    lie  made  matters  very 


THE  TWO  OKPHANS. 


much   worse   by  the  hesitating,  nervous   manner   in 
which  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "  indeed  it  was — that  is  I  did 
live  bat  a  short  distance  from  here  ;  but  you  see  I 
have  moved.     Come,  come,  let  us  go,  madamoiselle." 

"  You  have  igoved  ?"  aoiied  Heurielle  still  too  much 
surprised  by  heJ-  relative's  appearance  to  be  able  to 
fully  collect  her  ideas. 

"'Yes,  yes;  only  yesterday,"  replied  Latlenr  impa- 
tiently, as  he  felt  that  he  could  not  keep  up  the  very 
thin  semblance  of  honesty,  which  he  had  assumed, 
much  longer  before  the  searching  eyes  ol  these  inno- 
cent girls. 

"And  you  said  nothing  of  it  in  your  letter?"  queried 
Henriette  as  she  shrunk  back  from  any  contact  with 
the  base  wretch  who  stood  before  her. 

"  No,"  answered  Lafleur  quickly.  "  I  did  not  men- 
tion it  because — because,  in  short  I  did  not  know  that 
I  was  going  to  move  ;  but  if  you  doubt  me,  here  are 
some  neighbors  of  mine,  good,  honest  citizens,  who 
will  vouch  for  me." 

As  he  spoke  he  made  a  sign  which  was  unseen  by 
Henriette,  and  at  the  same  time  three  men  came  out 
from  the  same  angle  of  the  building  at  which  Lafleur 
emerged,  and  came  towards  the  little  group. 

It  was  impossible  to  see  one  sign  of  honesty  abont 
these  citizens  of  Latteur's  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  their 
appearance  and  manners  proclaimed  them  to  he  men 
who,  for  the  sake  of  a  few  francs  would  not  hesitate 
at  any  action  however  vile. 

HaS  honest  Pierre  been  sent  bjr  fate,  just  at  that 
particular  moment,  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  recog- 
nizing them  as  cut-throats  who  were  known  to  be 
ready  for  every  species  of  villainy  which  promised 
to  bring  them  in  money. 

As  Henrietta  saw  tfie  men  advancing  towards  her. 
she  looked  into  their  faces,  and  in  an  instant  had  read 
their  characters  as  plainly  as  if  she  were  reading  the 
pages  of  a  book. 

Louise  felt  intuitively  that  some  trouble  impended  ; 
for  she  caught  her  sister  by  the  arm  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Henriette,  do  not  leave  me  ! '' 

Henriette  had  not  time  to  ans^ver  her  sister's  entreaty, 
for  the  men  whom  Lafleur  had  called  up  were  appro- 
aching very  near,  and  one  had  stepped  between  her 
and  Louise. 

'  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  1  "  she  asked,  panting 
with  fear. 

She  received  no  reply ;  but  Lafleur  turned  quickly 
to  his  men,  and  cried  : 

"  Come,  come  ;  we  have  lost  time  enough.  To  the 
carriage ! " 

This  was  evidently  the  signal  which  the  scoundrels 
Were    uniting  to  hear,  for  they  at   once   sprang  upon 
*lienriette,  and  grasped  her  firmly. 

Struggling  impatiently  in  their  clutches  she  got  her 
head  tree  long  enough  to  cry  in  an  imploring  voice: 

"No!  no!  Help,  help!"  and  vainly  tried  to  pre- 
vent the  villains  from  covering  her  fiice  with  a  hand- 
kerchief which  was  saturated  with  some  pungent 
odor. 
"■  The  struggle  was  very  brief.  In  less  than  thirty 
seconds  the  dastardly  deed  was  done,  and  Henriette 
was  borne  rapidly  away,  leaving  Louise  petrihed  w 
fear. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BLIND  AND  ALONE. 

For  an  instant  the  blind  girl  stood  in  an  anxious, 
risteuing  attitude,  hoping  lo  hear  lier  sistei's  voice 
again;  but  no  familiar  sound  met  her  ear,  only  the 
rushing  of  the  water,  or  the  footsteps  of  some  pedes- 
trian in  the  distance. 

She  was  alone  in  Paris.  Blind  and  alone,  without 
relatives  or  friends.     No  one  to  whom  she  could  j;o 


save  to  Him  who  watches  over  the  sparrow,  and  His 
ways  are  not  man's  ways. 

'•  I  hear  nothing,"  said  Louise  in  a  terrified  wliisper, 
as  she  again  bent  her  head  to  listen.  Then,  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  fear,  she  cried  :  '  Henriette,  where  is 
that  man  ?     Sister,  why  do  you  not  answer  me  1 " 

But  no  reply  came  lo  her  agonized  cries. 

"Henriette!  Henriette!  Speak  to  me.  speak  one 
word.  Answer  me,  Henriette  !  No  answer,  no 
reply?'  ' 

At  this  moment  she  heard  a  halt  stifled  cry  in  the 
distance,  and  she  recognized  the  tones  of  the  voice.  / 

"  Louise  !  "  was  the  cry,  and  the  poor  blind  girl  / 
knew  that  her  sister  was  b'eyond  her  reach,  and  in  tlie  / 
power  of  cruel  men  who  would  know  no  meicy. 

"  Ah,  'tis  she.  They  have  dragged  her  away  from 
me  !"  exclaimed  Louise,  in  atone  which  would  have 
thrilled  the  hearer's  heart  with  pity.  "  Oli !  whai 
shall  I  do  ?    Alone  !  alone  !  abandoned  I  " 

And  with  the  last  word  the  full  measure  of  her  situ- 
ation surged  across  her  brain  with  irresistible  force, 
and  she  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears.  Woiild  that  it 
were  possible  to  express,  through  the  cold  medium  of 
letters,  all  the  intense  suff'ering  which  came  from  the 
poor  gill's  heart  with  that  one  word  "  abandoned." 

The  reader,  sitting  in  his  or  her  cosy  home,  sur- 
rounded by  friends,  can  have  no  idea  of  what  the  word 
may  express ;  no  idea  of  how  a  loving  heart  may  be 
wrung  when  that  word  portrays  their  situation  as  fully 
as  it  did  in  Louise's  position. 

"  What  will  become  of  me  ?"  she  cried  between  her 
sobs.  "  Alone  in  this  great  city  ;  helpless  and  blind — 
my  God  !  what  shall  I  do  ?  Where  am  I  to  go  ?  I  do 
not  know  which  way  to  turn  !  " 

The  poor  child  knew  tliat  she  was  standing  in  the 
street,  and  in  danger  of  being  rudely  pushed  about  by 
any  rarty  of  revelers  or  so-called  gallants,  that  might 
pass  her,  and  her  instinct,  for  her  brain  was  in  such  a 
whirl  that  she  could  not  think,  warned  her  to  try  and 
reach  sotne  place  less  exposed.  ^\ 

She  groped  her  way  around  ;  but  her  hands  touched     \ 
nothing,  until   unwittingly  she  approached  the  railing 
or  wall  which  served  as  a  guard  to  the  steep  bank  that 
descended  to  the  river. 

Along  this  she  felt  her  way  until  suddenly  her  hands 
met  the  empty  air.  It  was  the  angle  formed  by  the 
long  flight  ot  rough  stone  steps  which  led  to  the  water, 
and  all  unconscious  of  her  danger  she  was  about  to 
pursue  her  way. 

Another  step  and  she  would  have  been  dashed  npon 
the  rocky  shore  below,  when,  without  having  heard  a 
sound,  she  felt  herself  clasped  in  a  man's  arms. 

It  was  Pierre,  who,  having  filled  his  water-can,  had 
toiled  laboriou.slv  to  the  top  of  the  steps  just  in  time  to 
save  the  life  of  her  who,  to  him,  had  seemed  little  less 
than  an  aiicel. 

"  Great  Hetivens  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  bore  her  to 
the  center  of  the  small  square,  "  what  were  you  going 
to  do  ( " 

•'  Nothing,  nothing — what  was  it?"  cried  Lnnise  in- 
coherently, as  pule  and  trembling  she  vainly  tried  to 
comprehend  all. 

"Another  step  aud  yon  would  have  fallen  in  the 
river,"'  answered  Pierre  in  a  tone  of  horror  at  the 
thought  of  what  might  have  happened. 

"  Oh,  save  me  !  save  me  !  "  cried  Louise,  grasping 
Pierre  by  the  arm,  as  though  fearful  of  being  separated 
from  one  who  could  assist  her. 

By  a  singular  chance,  Pierre's  mother  had  finished 
her  drinking  bout  with  her  beautiful  son  Jacques, 
which  was  paid  for  with  the  cripple's  scanty  earnings, 
just  at  this  moment,  and  she  nieiged  tVoin  the  cabar- 
et just  in  time  to  see  her  son  supporting  a  beautiful 
young  girl  on  his  arm. 

It  was  seldom  that  Mother  Frochard  allowed  her- 
self to  be  surprised  by  any  thing  she  saw  ;  but  in  this 
instance  she  was  astouncfed.  Had  it  been  Jacques  she 
would  not  have  wondered  ;  indeed  it  only  would  have 
seemed  natural.     But    Pierre!    why  the  girl  must  be 


10 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


<razy,  was  her  first  thought,  and  then  with  her  mas 
cnline  strides  she  went  up  to  them,  and  peered  curious 
ly  in  Louise's  pale  and  frightened  face. 

"Why,  wliat  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  "-what 
are  you  noing  there,  Pierre  ?  " 

But  Piene  was  too  much  occupied  -with  his  charge 
to  make  any  reply,  and  La  Frochard  seized  Louise  by 
the  arm  with  no  gentle  force,  and  asked  in  her  slirill, 
imsf  ing  voice : 

"  Young  woman,  did  you  fall  ? " 
Harsh  and  coarse  as  the  voice -was,  it  was  a  welcome 
sound  to  Louise,  for  she  knew  it  was  one  of  her  own 
sex  who  had  spoken. 

She  took  hold  of  the  hard,  dirty  hand,  and  because  it 
was  a  woman's  touch  that  met  hers,  she  could  have 
kissed  it. 

"  Oh,  madam,"  she  cried,  in  an  imploring  tone.  "Do 
not  leave  me,  I  beg.  I  entreat  you  not  to  leave  me 
here  all  alone." 

Mother  Frochard  prided  herself  upon  not  being 
weak,  and  she  did  not  deign  to  answer  Louise's 
prayer. 

But  Pierre  hastened  to  reassure  her. 
"  Calm  yourself,  madamoiselle,  there   is  no  danger 
now,"  he  said,  soothingly,  as  he  gazed  upon  her  beau- 
tiful face. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  the  old  woman,  impatiently. 
"Have  vou  lost  your  head?" 

And  in  the  last  question  there  was  a  sneer  in 
the  tones  of  the  voice  which  was  growing  harder 
and  harder  every  moment. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  Louise,  hardly  knowing  what 
she  said.'  "  I  believe  I  shall  go  mad.  Alas  !  madam, 
a  few  moments  ago  my  sister  was  here  with  me,  and 
they  have  stolen  her  away  from  me." 

"Stolen  herl"  repeated  Pierre,  in  a  voice  of  the 
deepest  commiseration,  which  presented  a  striking  con- 
trast to  his  mother's  remark. 

"  Well,  you  must  let  your  parents  know,"  she  said, 
coldly,  as  though  having  a  child  stolen  were  nothing 
more  than  a  bit  of  pleasantry  which  was  easily  recti- 
fied. 

"Our  parents?"  exclaimed  Louise,  sadly,  breaking 
once  more  into  tears.  "Alas,  madam  we  are  or- 
phans."' 

"  You  have  acquaintances — friends,"  said  Pierre. 
"We  have  only  just  arrived  in  Paris,  and  I  know  no 
one  here." 

To  Pierre  this  intelligence  was  sad  ;  but  his  mother 
seemed  to  view  the  matter  differently,  for  she  asked 
eagerly : 

"  No  one — no  one  at  all  T " 
Louise  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"Were  the  people  who  took  your  sister  away,  gen- 
tlemen, or  common  people?"  asked  Pierre,  with  the 
faint  hope  that  he  might  aid  her  to  find  her  sister. 
"  How  can  I  tell?"  asked  Louise,  mournfully. 
"  You  could  see  their  clothes,"  said  Mother  Fro- 
chard, impatient  at  what  she  believed  the  stupidity  of 
the  girl. 

"Alas!    madam.  I  am  blind,"  said  Louise,  sadly. 
"You   are    blind!"  exclaimed  Pierre,  pityingly,  as 
be  gazed  at  her  sightless  eyes. 

Mother  Frochard  looked  at  the  young  girl  much  as 
one  would  look  at  some  newly  discovered  treasure, 
and  she  saw  in  a  moment  many  ways  of  turning  her 
prize  to  account. 

"Ah.  ha!"  she  thought.  "Blind,  without  rela- 
tions, frieiKls,  or  acquaintances  in  Paris;  and  young 
and  pretty." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  cripple,  as  he  finished  his  ex- 
amination of  the  poor  girl's  eyes,  and  turned  sadly 
away. 

"So  young  and  pretty,  too,"  he  sail,  half  to  him- 
self, wiping  Hway  a  tear  that,  despite  all  his  eftorts, 
would  make  its  appearance. 

"Go!  leave  me  alone  with  her,"  said  the  old  wo- 
man.    "  I'll  take  care  of  her." 

But  Mother  Frochard'a  promise  to  "  take  care  "  of 


the  poor  girl  meant  a  great  deal  more  than  the  words 
conveyed.  Her  care  was  something  to  be  shunned, 
and  God  have  mercy  on  the  unfortunate  whom  the 
old  woman  should  take  under  her  protecting  care. 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Piene,  signifying  his  readiness 
to  obey  his  mother's  commands,  "we  must  help  her 
to  find  her  sister.' 

"That's  all  right,"  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  in  a 
voice  which  should  be  kind  and  motherly  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  darting  a  furious  look  at  Pierre,  who  still 
linjrered.     "  1  know  what  to  do.' 

Pierre  stood  gazing  at  the  blind  girl,  who  still  re- 
tained her  hold  of  the  old  woman's  arm,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  he  was  unable  to  leave  her  charmed  presence. 

"  You  get  out,"  exclaimed  the  old  woman  suddenly, 
in  a  fierce  whisper,  as  she  unloosed  the  girl's  gra.'i'p, 
and  went  towards  the  cripple. 

Fearing  lest  she  was  aoont  to  be  deprived  of  her 
protectress,  Louise  said,  as  she  vainly  endeavored  to 
touch  her  arm  again : 

"  You  will  not  leave  me,  madam  ? " 
"  Never  fear,  my  dear,  I  am   here,"  replied  Mother 
Frochard,  cheeringly. 

Pierre  went  slowly  towards  his  wheel,  and  raising 
it  on  his  back,  started  to  go.  He  could  not  resist  a 
last  glance  at  the  young  girl. 

"  Blind ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  gazed  npon  her 
slight  form.  "  So  young  and  so  pretty.-'  Then,  a?  he 
thought  of  his  own  deformity,  a  biiter  smile  passed 
over  his  face,  which  in  its  bitterness  was  painful,  be- 
cause of  the  misery  which  it  served  to  portray,  and 
he  added  : 

"  Pretty !  what  is  that  to  you,  miserable  cripple  1 " 
And,  as  if  he  had  convinced  himself  that  he  must 
not  think  of  beauty,  or  anything  but  his  own  wretch- 
edness, he  walked  wearily  away,  while  his  cry  of 
"Knives  to  grind!  Scissors  to  grind!"  was  (Jonbly 
pathetic  in  the  intensity  of  the  despair  which  seemed 
to  come  with  it. 

"Come,  come,  my  pretty  child,  don't  be  downcast," 
said  Mother  Frocfard,  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
blind  girl's  shoulder,  and  took  mental  note  of  the  cloth- 
ing which  the  poor  girl  wore. 

"Alas!  to  whom  shall  I  go  for  help?  asked  Loa 
ise,  sadly. 

"To  me,"  said  La  Frochard,  throwing  all  the  dig- 
nity and  maternal  tone  possible  into  her  words.  "I 
am  an  honest  woman,  and  mother  of  a  family.  I 
will  give  you  a  home  until  you  find  your  sister." 

"  Ah,  madam,  you  are  ve'iy  good  to  have  pity  on 
me,"  said  Louise,  thankfully.  "But  we  will  find  my 
sister,  will  we  not?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly,  in  time,"  said  the  old  woman, 
thinking' that  she  would  take  plenty  of  time  to  v? — 
"come  then,  come  along  with  me." 

"  Louise,  without  a  fear  of  what  she  was  to  snfTer 
through  the  old  woman's  fiendishness,  said  confiding- 
ly : 

"  I  trust  mvself  to  yon,  madam." 
"  You  couldn't  do  better,  for  you  have  fallen  into 
good  hands." 

And  the  old  woman  led  the  blind  girl  to  her  vile  den, 
and  the  sister,  who  had  been  stolen,  was  still  in  the 
power  of  her  abductors. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  HOME   OF  THE  FBOCHAKD8. 

Mother  Frochaed  led  Louise  along  the  streets  in 
a  careful  manner,  although,  had  the  poor  girl  not  been 
so  engrossed  with  the  thoughts  of  the  loss  she  had  just 
sustained,  she  would  have  noticed  that  although  they 
walked  iu  a  leisurely  manner  throngh  those  street* 
that  were  evidently  deserted,  the  old  woman  quick- 
ened her  pace  veiy  perceptibly  whenever  they  ap- 
proached any  traveler. 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


11 


For  Borae  momenta  neither  La  Frochard  nor  Louise 
spoke.  The  one  was  thinking  of  the  prize  she  hud 
found,  and  of  the  best  moans  of  making  her  serve  her 
purpose,  while  the  other  was  thinking  of  the  sister  she 
had  lost. 

Now  it  was  not  Mother  Frochard's  custom  to  walk 
through  the  streets  in  this  quiet  manner;  for  she  vena 
1  professional  beggar  and  her  monotonous,  nassal 
3ry  of  "charity,  good  people.  Charity  for  a  poor  old 
woman,"  was  well  known  in  the  quarters  which  she 
frequented.  But  on  this  occasion  she  did  not  wish  to 
[et  Louise  know  whit  her  business  was,  and  again  she 
lid  not  wish  to  attract  attention,  as  she  feared  it  might 
jxcite  suspicion  if  she  was  observed  with  the  neatly 
Iressed,  innocent-looking  country  girl. 

''  Have  you  always  been  blind,  my  dear  ?  "  she  ask- 
3d,  in  what  was  intended  to  be  a  kind,  motherly  voice. 

"Oh,  no,  madam,"  replied  Louise.  "  I  have  only 
jeen  blind  two  years." 

"  Two  years  I"  repeated  La  Frochard  ;  "  and  what 
saused  you  to  lose  your  sight  ?  " 

"  I  was  very  sick  with  a  fever  and  something  seem- 
sd  to  grow  over  my  eyes,"  replied  Lonise,  sadly,  as  she 
;hought  of  that  time  when  she  was  thus  shut  out  from 
;he  world  and  imprisoned,  as  it  were,  within  herself. 
''  I  don't  suppose  there  is  any  chance  of  your  ever  be- 
ng  cured,  is  there  1"  asked  the  old  woman,  with  the 
new  of  finding  out  whether  there  was  any  chance  of 
;he  girl's  being  able  to  leave  her  motherly  (?)  care. 

"  Henriette  thinks  that  I  maj  be  cured,  there  are  so 
nan^  skillful  physicians  in  this  great  city,"  answered 
Louise,  with  the  tears  tilling  her  ejes  again  as  she 
ivas  thns  so  vividly  reminded  of  her  sister.  "  She  sold 
ill  we  possessed  to  raise  money  enough  to  pay  the 
loctors.'' 

"  So  yon  had  some  property  then?  " 

"A  very  little,  madam:  "When  our  dear  parents 
lied  they  left  to  us  the  little  cottage  in  which  we  lived. 
3at  how  much  farther  have  we  to  go  1" 

And  Louise's  voice  as  she  asked  the  qnestion  told 
)lainly  how  weary  ehe  was. 

"  Only  a  few  steps,  my  dear.  We  are  poor  people 
md  cannot  live  in  fine  houses,  so  we  have  a  little 
lOUse  by  the  river.  But  courage,"  said  the  old  wo- 
nan,  patting  her  ou  the  shoulder.  "  We  shall  soon  be 
here." 

Wearily  the  blind  girl  followed  her  gnide.  She  was 
mtirely  worn  out  by  the  excitement  and  fatiques  of 
he  day,  and  any  shelter,  however  humble  or  poor, 
rould  have  been  gladly  welcomed  by  her. 

"  We  shall  find  my  sister  in  the  morning,  shall  we 
lot,  madam' "  asked  Louise  for  the  second  time. 

"  It  may  take  some  days,"  replied  Mother  Fi'ochard, 
>y^p^jye\y.     You  must  try  not  to  think  of  her  tonight." 

A  prayer  went  up  from  the  poor  girl's  heart  that 
lorsisttM- might  bo  speedily  restored  to  her,  and  she 
lilently  followed  the  old  woman. 

After  they  had  walked,  as  it  seemed  to  Louise,  mnnv 
niles,  Mother  Frochard  stopped  before  a  house  whicli 
Tom  outside  ai>pearancc,  had  formerly  been  a  boat- 
louse.  It  was  in  the  last  stages  of  decay,  and  the 
whole  surroundings  seemed  a  tit  abode  for  crime. 

"  Here  wo  are,  my  dear;  here  we  are  at  lant!"  said 
the  old  woman  as  she  led  Louiso  through  a  long,  dark 
passage,  and  then  down  several  damp,  monhly  steps, 
Rud  left,  her  standint;  in  a  small  entry,  reeking  with 
noisome  odors,  while  she  fumbled  in  her  capacious 
pockets  for  the  key. 

The  door  was  opened  at  last,  and  the  two  entered  a  ' 
large  square  room,  the  furniture  of  which  was  of  the  | 
rudest  aescriition.  Two  large,  bam-like  doors  which 
opened  on  the  water-front,  and  which  were  barred 
with  heavy  wooden  bars,  shesv  that  at  some  verv  re- 
mote time  the  building  had  been  used,  as  its  outside  ap- 
pearance indicated,  for  a  boat-house. 

A  ttittht  of  steps  led  from  the  ci^nter  of  the  room 
to  what  was  probably  the  garret;  but  several  straw 
beds  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  shew  that  the  lower 


floor  was  the  only  portion  of  the  house  which  was 
used. 

Lonise  shuddered  as  she  entered  the  damp,  disagree- 
able-smelling room  ;  but  herfeelings  wouki  have  been 
much  worse  could  she  have  seen  the  vile  place,  and 
the  gleam  of  triumph  which  shone  on  the  old  woman's 
eyes  as  she  saw  that  she  had  her  prize  securely 
caged. 

"  Sit  down  here,"  said  La  Frochard,  "  and  I  will  get 
you  something  to  eat." 

And  the  old  woman  led  Lonise  to  a  chair,  where,  by 
placing  her  hands  ou  her  shoulders,  she  forced  her  to 
be  seated. 

"  I  do  not  care  to  eat,  madam,"  said  Lonise,  pite- 
ously.  "  If  you  will  allow  me  to  go  to  my  room  1  will 
retire." 

"Goto  your  room? "'cried  Mother  Frochard,  in  a 
hard,  shrill  voice  from  which  all  the  assumed  tender- 
ness had  fled.  "  Do  you  think  we  keeps  an  inn  1 ' 
And  the  old  wretch  stood,  with  her  hands  on  her 
hips,  before  the  poor  girl  who  shrank  from  before  the 
mocking  words  as  from  a  blow. 

"I — aid — did  not  know,  madam,''  she  faltered.  "I 
was  very  weary,  and  wanted  to  retire." 

"Well  if  you  want  to  go  to  sleep,  yon  can  do  that 
over  here,'' and  the  old  woman  led  her  towards  the  beds 
in  the  corner.  "These  are  good  enough  for  my  hand- 
some Jacques,  and  I  guess  they  will  do  for  you,  mr 
fine  lady." 

"Anything  will  do  forme,  madam,"  said  Louise  in 
a  conciliatorv  tone.  "  I  did  not  know  you  were  to 
poor  ;  but  lienriette  will  pay  you  to-morrow  when 
we  find  her." 

And  with  a  sigh  of  thankfulness  for  the  resting 
place,  poor  and  wretched  as  it  was,  Louise  eank  apoD 
one  of  the  dirty  straw  beds,  dressed  as  she  waa,  and, 
after  having  uttered  her  child-like  prayer,  eank  into  a 
profound  slumber. 

"Yes,  your  sister  will  pay  me  for  my  trouble  after 
we  have  found  her,  my  fine  lady,"  muttered  La  Fro- 
chard, as  she  seated  herself  by  tlie  side  of  a  rude  table, 
and  from  some  one  of  its  drawers  produced  a  bottlo 
of  brandy. 

Several  copious  draughts  had  the  effect  of  changing 
the  old  woman  completely,  and  she  muttered  to  her- 
self while  she  cast  threatening  glances  at  the  young 
girl,  who  calmly  sleeping,  was  all  niiconscionsof  the 
danger  which  surrounded  her. 

In  about  half  an  hour  after  La  Frochard  and  Lonise 
entered  the  house,  and  while  the  old  woman  was  still 
conimnning  with  the  brnndy  bottle,  a  loud  bustle  wa« 
lieard  in  the  ])as8age  just  outside  the  door. 

Mother  Frochard  listened  intently,  and  gazed  toward 
the  bed,  as  if  to  see  whether  the  noise  would  wake 
the  girl,  until  several  loud  curses  in  a  well  known 
voice,  caused  a  complacent  smile  to  appear  upon  her 
face,  and  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  saying  : 

"  It's  Jacques,  my  hiindsouie  Jacques." 

At  the  same  moment,  with  a  drunken  swagger, 
Jacones  entered  the  room. 

'  VVell,  my  boy,  what  IncUl"  asked  his  mother  rs 
sh(!  gazed  admirnigly  upon   him. 

"  The  worst  of  luck, '  answered  Jacques,  snlleiily,  aa 
he  seatevi  himself  upon  a  low  stool,  and  began  filling 
his  pipe.     "  Marianne  has  deceived  mo." 

"  Deceived  you  !  Oh,  the  wretch  !'  exclaimed  the 
olil  woman  in  a  tone  that  told  pliinly  what  Marianne 
might  expect  if  she  sliouW  get  her  in  her  grasp  ono«. 
"  But  how  did  she  deceive  you  f  " 

"  She  gave  herself  up  to'ihe  guard.  I  told  her  to 
find  a  purse,  and  after-she  had  done  it,  she  gaTe  her- 
self up  to  get  away  from  nie,  as  she  said.'' 

Just  then  Lonise  made  a  movement  in  her  Bleep, 
which  attracted  Jacques'  attention. 

"Hello!  What  have  you  got  here?"  he  aeked,  &» 
he  went  toward  the  bed. 

Mother  Frochard  related  the  story  of  how  she 
found  Louise,  and  when  she  had  concluded,  Jacqaea 
gave  vent  to  his  satisfaction  in  a  prolonged  whistle. 


12 


THE  TWO  ORPHAN*. 


"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  her  ?  "  he  asked  at 
length,  at  ill  gazing  upon  the  beautiful  face  of  the  aioep- 
iug  girl. 

"  Sho  shall  go  out  with  me  and  sing ;  the  money 
will  come  in  fast  enougli  then,  I'll  warrant,"  replied 
the  old  woman  betaking  herself  once  more  to  her 
bottle. 

"  Hello,  it's  full  again,  is  it  ? "  said  Jacques,  as  he 
reached  over  and  taking  the  bottle  from  his  mother's 
hand,  took  a  draught  which  was  both  long  and  deep. 

Mother  and  son,  as  they  sat  there,  with  all  the  bru- 
tality in  their  hard  natures  arou.sed  by  the  fiery  liquid 
they  had  dranlf,  were  a  well  mated  couple,  ana  Louise 
seemed  as  much  out  of  place  in  their  den,  as  a  lily  of 
the  valley  would  in  the  midst  of  fungus. 

The  evening  meal  had  been  prepared,  and  nearly 
dispatched  when  Pierre,  looking  faded  and  sorrowful, 
entered  the  hut  with  his  wheel  strapped  upon  his 
back. 

Neither  his  mother  or  JacqutJrt  paid  any  attention  to 
him  as  he  entered,  and  he  went  quietly  to  the  further 
end  of  the  room  to  leave  his  wheel,  when  he  was  ar- 
rested by  the  sight  of  the  sleeping  girl. 

With  alow  cry  expressive  of  delight  he  stopped  and 
gazed  at  her  lovely  face.  Then  leaving  his  wheel  in 
Its  accustomed  place  he  returned  to  the  bedside,  and 
kneeling  down  looked  at  her  much  as  a  pilgrim  might 
at  the  Mec3a  of  his  faith. 

"  Look  at  the  cripple,"  said  Jacqnes  to  his  mother, 
and  then  both  broke  into  a  coarse  faugh,  which  arous- 
ed him  from  his  worship. 

He  eat  the  fragments  which  had  been  left  by  his 
mother  and  Jacques,  silently,  and  then  commenced  to 
do  some  work  wnich  he  ha3  brought  home  with  him, 
while  the  other  two  began  a  night  of  drinking  which 
wa.s  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception. 

The  morning  came,  and  with  it  the  first  intimation  to 
poor  Louise  of  what  her  life  would  be. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  heavy  hand  of  Mother  Fro- 
chard,  who  pulled  nei*  roughly  to  a  standing  posi- 
tion. 

"  Get  up  my  fine  lady,  ^et  np  and  try  to  earn  yonr 
own  living.  You  don't  think  that  we  can  keep  you  in 
idleness,  do  ye?"  said  the  old  wretch  in  a  voice: 
which  was  yet  thick  from  the  effects  of  the  previous-, 
night's  dissipation. 

For  a  moment  Louise  could  not  understand  where 
she  was,  or  what  had  happened,  and  then  like  a  floodi 
the  remembrance  of  her  loss  rushed  over  her. 

She  could  make  no  reply  ;  indeed  she  only  half  un- 
derstood what  had  been  said  to  her.  and  sitting  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  she  commenced  to  weep. 

Pierre  and  Jacqnes  were  watching  the  proceedings. 
The  former  with  a  look  of  pity  and  compassion,  and 
the  latter  with  amusement, 

"Now  then!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman  as  she 
dragged  the  girl  to  her  feet  again.     "  Can  you  sing?  " 

Louise  did  not  reply,  but  wept  more  violently. 

"  Can  you  sing  ? "  screamed  the  old  hag,  at  the  same 
time  crasping  the  poor  girl  by  the  arm  in  a  manner 
which  cans>ed  her  to  wince  with  pain. 

"Yes,  yes,  madam,"  replied  Louise  in  affright. 

"  Well,  I  wants  yer  to  come  out  with  me,  and  earn 
your  living." 

"How  madam?" 

"  How  ?  Why  by  singing  in  the  streets  to  be 
sure." 

"  I  cannot,  madam,  I  cannot,"  exclaimed  the  poor 
girl  piteonsly.  "  You  said  we  should  find  my  sister  to- 
day.' 

•'  It  will  take  many  days  to  find  yonr  sister,  I'm 
thinking,"  snarled  La  Frochard,  "  and  you've  got  to 
help  voiir  friends." 

"  You  mean  for  me  to  beg?"  gasped  Louise. 

'■  No,  my  lady.  You  do  the  singing  and  I'll  do  the 
begging." 

Louise  cowered  down  upon  the  bed  like  one  stiicken 
with  a  blow. 


"  You'll  have  to  take  that  ont  of  her,"  laughed  Jae* 
ques,  who  was  enjoying  the  spectacle. 

"  But  you  promised  her  that  you  would  find  her  sis- 
ter,"' said  Pierre,  hastily  wiping  the  tears  away  from 
his  eyes,  and  starting  to  his  feet. 

'  Oh,  ho,  master  cripple,  who  told  you  to  speak  1  Go 
sit  down,"  said  Jacques,  dealing  the  lame  boy  a  vio- 
lent blow  which  sent  him  reeling  to  the  further  end  of 
the  room. 

"Now  then,"  said  Mother  Frochard,  who  had  brought 
an  old  dress  and  a  pair  of  slioe:*  to  the  weeping  girl ; 
"  you  will  take  off  your  fine  clothes,  and  put  these  on. 
They  will  become  you  much  better." 

"Madam!"  exclaimed  Louise,  falling  on  her  knees 
before  the  old  woman.  "  I  pray  you  to  help  me  rind 
ray  sister.  Madam,  for  the  love  of  Heaven  help  me,  or 
I  shall  go  mad." 

A  coarse  laugh  from  La  Frochard  and  Jacques, 
drowned  Pierre's  pitying  exclamation. 

"  Don't  waste  any  time  with  her,  mother,"  said  Jac- 
ques. 

"  That  I  won't,"  said  the  old  weman.  "  Now,  look 
here,  I  am  willing  to  help  you  find  your  sister;  but  that 
will  take  time,  and  you've  got  to  go  with  me  to  do 
something  towards  supporting  the  family  first." 

And  the  fiend  in  woman's  form  began  to  unloose  the 
blind  girl's  clothes,  preparatory  to  changing  them  for 
the  rags  which  she  intended  for  her  to  wear. 

"  Do  not  force  her  to  beg,  mother,"  pleaded  the  lame 
boy. 

"  Shut  np  !"  was  Jacques  brutal  order,  at  the  same 
time  threatening  him  with  his  hand.  "  The  girl  has 
got  to  beg.  and  that's  the  end  of  it,  we'll  find  her  sister 
when  we  get  ready." 

These  words,  and  the  tone  in  which  they  were  ut- 
tered, showed  Louise  why  these  people  had  taken  her 
to  their  home,  and  she  resolved  not  to  submit  to  the 
indignity. 

"  I  win  not  beg  !"  she  exclaimed,  while  the  color 
rose  to  her  cheeks.  "Yon  may  kill  me,  but  I  will  not 
beg.  I  will  ask  the  first  person  I  meet  to  save  me 
from  yonr  vile  hands." 

"  She's  got  quite  a  temper,"  sneered  Jacques,  "  and 
when  it's  roused  she's  quite  decent  looking." 

"Very  well,  my  lady  ;  very  well.  I'll  soon  break 
you  of  that.  You'll  want  to  beg  or  do  anything  else 
before  you've  been  in  the  garret  very  long." 

And  seizing  the  poor  girl  as  thougn  she  had  been  aa 
infant,  she  carried  her  to  the  filthy  hole  under  the 
roof 

"  Oh,  do  hot  leave  me  here  alone,"  screamed  Louise 
in  affright,  as  her  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  the 
enormous  rats  as  they  scampered  away  at  their  ap- 
proach, and  the  odors  as  if  of  decayed  flesh  greeted  her. 
"I  shall  lie,  I  shall  die !"  .-i-  - 

And  she  struggled  vainly  in  the  old  woman's  strong 
grasp. 

"  Oh,  mother,  have  mercy  upon  her.  Do  not  shut 
hemp  in  that  filthy  place.  It  will  kill  her!"  implored 
Pierre,  as  he  endeavored  to  rush  up  the  steps  to  the 
poor  tcirl's  aid. 

"  Go  back,  cripple,"  laughed  Jacques,  at  the  same 
time  giving  the  boy  a  blow  which  laid  him  senseless  on 
the  floor.  "  Go  on,  mother,"  he  said  to  the  old  hag. 
"  A  few  days  there  will  do  her  good." 

La  Frochard  had  no  idea  of  what  the  word  pity 
meant,  and  she  thrust  the  blind  girl,  who  was  already 
nearly  dead  with  fright  at  the  horrors  she  could  not 
see,  but  only  imagine,  into  the  vile  ''ole,  and  locked 
the  door. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

GARDEV  OF  BEL-AIR. 


The  Marqnis  de  Presles  had  told  Laflenr  to  carry 
1  Henriette  to  Bel-Air,  and  we  will  visit  those  gardens 


THE  'J  WO  OKPHANS. 


AnotTter  stfp  and  tJie  poor  hUnd  Louise  would  have  been  dashed  upon  the  rods  below. 


THE  TWO  ORPFIANS. 


13 


on  the  same  evening  that  the  beantifiil    orplian  was 
abducted. 

The  scene  there  was  a  lirillianr  one,  well  illiioitiat- 
inglhe  pleasures  of  the  nobles  ot  France  about  tlie 
beginning  of  the  present  century. 

A  email  garden  had  been  niade  in  the  midst  of  a 
natural  grove,  which  was  shut  out  from  the  curious 
gaze  of  the  world  l>y  several  small  cottages  or  chalet.^, 
necorated  in  the  highest  style  of  art,  and  which  serv- 
ed the  Marquis  de  Presles  as  a  retreat,  where,  free 
from  intrusion,  tliat  protiigate  nobleman  could  enjoy 
the  society  of  l)o<)n  companions,  wlio,  like  liimself, 
lived  only  for  the  piesent  and  its  pleasures. 

On  this  particular  evening  tlie  gardens  were  illumin- 
ated, and  a  large  partv  of  so-called  ladies  and  gentle- 
men Were  as.seml)led'  to  do  full  honor  to  the  enter- 
tainments for  which  the  marquis  was  celebrated. 

As  we  attempt  to  pass  within  the  inclosure,  we  are 
Btopped  by  a  numerous  crowd  of  lackeys,  who  de- 
mand to  see  our  card  of  admission,  and  failing  to  pro- 
duce such  a  passport,  we  are  told  that  we  are  not 
allowed  even  near  the  gardens,  while  all  ettorts  to  in- 
duce any  of  them  to  present  our  cards  to  the  master  of 
this  retreat  are  equally  unavailing,  as  they  declare 
that  their  orders  are  most  positive,  and  we  must  go 
quietly  away  or  be  forced  to  go.  Thus  jealously  does 
tne  Marquis  guard  his  retreat  from  importunate  cre- 
ditor or  unwelcome  friend. 

Inasmuch  as  we  only  visit  Bel-Air  in  fancy,  we  can 
bid  deficince  to  tlie  Marquis's  orders,  and  enter  witli- 
ont  his  permission. 

Around  the  tables  which  are  placed  in  tlie  garden, 
a  number  of  ladiea  and  gentlemen  are  seated,  drinking 
■wine  while  they  discuss  the  latest  court  news,  or  the 
most  interesting  scandal. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  retreat  from  the 
■Vfhhl  and  bustle  of  Paris  ?  "  asked  "the  AFarquis  of  his 
▼is-a-vis,  who  was  a  dashing  sort  of  beaut}'. 
_  "  My  dear  Marquis,"  replied  that  lady.  "  I  am  de- 
lighted. It  is  a  satisfaction  to  find  a  gentleman  wlio 
maintains  the  customs  of  his  rank." 

"And  yet  there  are  fools  who  want  to  cliange 
them."  exclaimed  a  young  nobleman  from  the  oppos- 
ite table. 

'■  You  are  right — fools,  fools."  answered  De  Pi-esles 
KB  he  motioned  to  tlie  servants  for  mare  wine. 

'By  the  way,"  asked  the  lady  who  had  first  spok- 
en, "  have  you  heard  the  news]" 

As  no  one  had  heard  anything  particularly  nevr  for 
the  past  two  hours,  she  continued  by  saying: 

•'  riiey  say  that  the  new  minister  of  police  isashard 
as  a  stone,  and  cold  as  a  fish.  He  is  going  to  put  a 
Rtop  to  all  our  amusements,  and.  Marquis,  this  may  be 
ftie  last  entertainment  you  will  give  at  Bel-Air." 

"Nonsense  !  "  exclaimed  the  host.  •'  I'd  like  to  see 
fi'-  ni'.ii.^tci  of  police  who  wouhi  dare  to  interfere 
with  the  pleasures  of  a  French  nobleman.  Who  and 
what  is  he?'' 

"He  is  from  Touraine  ;  is  called  tlie  Count  de  Lini- 
fres.  and  is  the  uncle  of  the  Chevalier  Maurice  de 
l''andrey." 

''\\'here  is  the  Chevalier?"  suddenly  asked  one  of 
the  ladies,  as  she  was  thus  reminded  of  one  of  whom 
report  had  described  as  rather  an  eccentric,  and  on 
Whom  she  wished  to  exercise  her  charms.  "  You 
jromised  me  I  should  see  him.  Marquis." 

"  So  I  did,  and  I  expect  him.  as  well  as  another 
ynest.  I  warn  you  ladies,  that  she  will  be  a  rival  to 
ron  rII." 

"  Who  is  this  other  gneet  ?  "  was  the  question  that 
issailed  him  from  all  quarters. 

"  A  young  lady."  answered  the  marquis,  as  if  enrap- 
ured  at  the  thought.  "  Sweet  sixteen,  beautiful  as  a 
ose,  and  innocent  as  an  angel." 

"Where  did  you  find  such  a  pearl?"'  asked  one  of 
he  ladies  banterinirly. 

"  lu  Normandy." 

This  annonncement  was  followed  bv  a  general 
angh. 


"Yes,  I  know  these  Normandy  beauties,  with  caps 
six  feet  high,"  laughed  one  of  the  ladies,  betraying  in 
spite  of  herself  a  tmge  of  jealousy  in  her  voice. 

"  In  wooden  shoes,"  added  ani'nher  of  the  fair  ones, 
"*nd  hair  plaited  down  her  back.' 

•'  Laugh  away,  ladies, "said  De  Presles gaily.  "  You 
shall  see  a  Norman  beauty  in  a  high  cap,  wooden  shoes 
and  all,  and  then  see  how"  jealous  you  will  all  become 
at  .'sight  of  her." 

At  this  moment  a  voice  was  heard  from  the  outside, 
and  in  the  midst  of  some  confusion  a  rather  singular 
voice  was  heaid  saying: 

'•  I  tell  you  1  nivst  go  in,  and  I  irilL  I  must  speak 
to  vonr  master." 

On  liearing  this  the  marquis  wont  toward  the  en- 
trance and  demanded  of  the  servants  who  it  was  that 
was  so  iiiip(utunate. 

"  Picard,"  answered  the  owner  of  the  singular 
voice.     "Picard,  valet  to  the  Chevalier  De  Vaudrey." 

The  marquis  immediately  gave  ordei-s  that  he  be  ad- 
mitted, and  a  sliaip.  wiry -looking  fellow,  wearing  the 
De  Vaudrey  livery,  stood  before  the  gay  party. 

'•Most  excellent  marquis,  and  most  beautiful  ladies," 
said  tie  in  an  affected  tone,  and  with  a  low  bow,  which 
was  received  with  laughter,  "  I  am  very  sorry  ;  but 
my  master  asks  you  to  excuse  him." 

■■Excuse  him?"  echoed  one  of  the  ladies — "why, 
he  promised " 

'•I  di()  the  promising,"  answered  Picard,  with  an- 
other of  his  sweeping  bows.  "He  said  he  did  not 
know  whether  he  could  come  or  not;  but  thinking  I 
could  persuade  him  I  promised  for  him." 

"Then  yon  took  a  great  liberty,"'  said  De  Presles. 
and  he  ought  to  punish  you  for  it." 

"Certainly  he  oui;ht,"  answered  Picard,  blandly: 
"I  wish  he  would;  but  alas!  my  master  is  not  like 
other  masters.     In  fact,  he  is  no  master  at  all." 

Seeing  looks  of  incredulity  at  his  statement,  Picard 
continued  in  a  most  solemn  manner: 

"  It  is  so,  gentlemen.  He  spends  his  nights  in  plea- 
sure as  a  young  nobleman  ought;  but  his  days — what 
do  you  suppose  he  does  with  hi.s  d;iys  ? "" 

'•'Sleeps  of  course,"  answered  the  marquis  in  a  posi- 
tive tone.  y' 

'•  Gentlemen,  allow  me  to  tell  you  confident iaily,"' 
said  the  valet  mysteriously,  as  the  trentlemen  gather- 
ed around  him  fully  expecting  to  hear  of  some  treason. 
"He  works!  actually  works.  lie  sits  down  and 
reads  and  writes  as  though  he  were  a  lawyer's  clerk." 

'•Bah!"  exclaimed  one.  "You  don't  expect  us  to 
believe  that." 

"  Yes,  and  more  too,"'  answered  Picard,  who  enjoyed 
immensely  being  able  to  impart  some  information  to 
his  superiors.  Why,  how  do  you  supiose  he  acts  to 
the  ctunmon  people,  who  want  to  see  nim?  His  cre- 
ditors for  instance  ?"' 

■'Why,  if  they  are  importunate,  he  beats  them,  I 
suppose,"  answered  De  Presles,  with  wliom  this  me- 
thod of  sstllint;  his  bills  was  a  common  occurrence. 

'■  Yes,  he  beats  ihem."  sneeied  Picard;  "he  pays 
them  !  Yes,  gentlemen  he  pays  his  trades-peoj)le," 
and  the  valet  surveyed  the,  group,  enjoying  the  sur- 
prise which  he  had  given  them. 

"Oh  !  the  poor  fellow  is  lost!"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
partv,  who  at  the  age  of  twentv  had  spent  a  larga 
fortune,  and  was  now  living  by  his  wits. 

"Completelv,"  affirmed  Picard,  "and  all  owing  to 
the  companv  he  keeps.     He  won't  be  guided  by  me." 

"Perhaps' he  IS  right  in  that,  "said  De  Presles.  "But 
where  is  the  attraction  elsewliere  to  niKhl '?" 

"  I  will  tell  you.  gentlemen,"  said  a  deep  voice  near 
the  entrance  t'o  the  gardens,  and  looking  up  all  saw 
the  Chevalier  de  Vaudrey  himself. 

He  was  a  noble  lookinir  man,  with  none  of  the  fop- 
peries and  evident  attempt  at  display  which  charac- 
terized some  of  his  companions,  ana  a  careful  observer 
would  instantly  have  said  that  he  was,  in  mental  en- 
dowments, farabove  the  average, 

'What  is  all  this  that  Picard  has  been  telling  us, 


14 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


that  yon  were  not  coming ! "  asked  De  PreelcB  in  eur- 
prise. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  come,  so  sent  him  with  my 
regrets,"  answered  the  chevalier,  as  he  accepted  a  glass 
of  wine  wliich   was  hande<i  to  him. 

"  And  now  he  hiiiiLrs  them  himself,"  t^aid  Picard  in 
a  low  voice  as  he  left  tiie  garden  hastily,  lest  liis  nias- 
ter  might   hear  of  the  disclosures  he  had  been  mak- 

iug- 

Tlie  conversation  became  general,  and  betoie  loutr 
tits  orgie  was  at  its  height,  when  a  noise  was  Ijeard 
at  ttie  entrance   and  Latleiii  appeared. 

After  whispering  a  few  words  to  the  marquis,  he  re- 
ceived the  order : 

"  Let  her  be  brought  in  here,"' 

Latleur  immediately  retired,  and  returned  in  a 
few  moments,  followed  by  lour  men  who  bore  a  sort 
of  jitter,  on  which  was  liie  inanimate  form  of  Hen- 
riette. 

She  lay  like  one  dead  ;  without  motion  or  color,  and 
save  for  tlie  sound  of  stentorian  breathing,  siie  was  to 
all  appearance  a  corpse. 

Into  llie  midst  of  some  of  the  most  dissolute  Parisian 
siiciety,  had  the  poor,  innocent,  unprotected  girl  been 
hiouKht  ;  with  no  one  to  aid  her,  and  even  those  of 
her  own  sex  who  were  by,  would  enjoy  her  sufferings 
lather  than  do  anything  to  save  her  from  the  fearful 
doom  that  was  so  near. 

What  a  terrible  change  for  the  two  or[>hans,  who. 
scarcely  twenty-four  hour  previous,  were  liirht  heart- 
ed maidens,  setting  out  from  their  childhood's  home  to 
visit  the  beautiful  city  about  which  they  had  heard  so 
much. 

Now  one  was  in  the  power  of  low,  vile  wretches, 
and  I  he  other  in  the  hands  of  those  who  called  them- 
selves g>-ntle  people  ;  but  who  had  no  more  mercy,  in 
fact,  not  as  much  as  the  Frochards. 


"  She  lias  a  very  ordinary  face,"  said  one  of  the  la- 
dies (!)  w  lici  jii  ided  herself  upon  her  beauty. 

•■  An  exo^eiliiigly  common  person,  as  you  can  tell  by 
her  feet."  said  iiiiolher,  as  she  tried  to  display  her  own 
dainty  foot,  which  sha  look  the  greatest  deliglit  in 
allowing. 

"liei  aims  and  hands  are  likf  a  washerwoman's," 
was  the  kindly  remark  of  a  bold  looking  blonde,  who 
had  exposed  as  much  of  her  own  ai'ins  as  possible. 

"  Oievalier,  yonropinion,"  asked  the  bankrupt  no- 
bleman, who  liked  a  hit  of  sarcasm,  and  not  being  able 
to  say  It  himself,  knew  that  it  would  be  sure  to  come 
from  the  eccentric  De  Vaiidrey. 

'•It's  a  lovely  face;  distinguished  air;  with  the 
handsaiid  f«et  of  a  duchess,"'  replied  the  chevalier, 
without  taking  the  trouble  to  look  at  the  object  of  his 


-■'  De  Presles  eagerl\  began 
'  But  I  have 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

SAVED  FROM   DISHONOR. 


Like  a  lily  half  broken  from  its  stem  lay  Henriette 
■pon  the  litter,  surrounded  by  the  revellers  who  had 
gathei'ed  near  to  see  the  Norman  beauty. 

Under  the  influence  of  the  drug  which  had  been  ad- 
ministered, she  remained  nnconscious  of  the  nnle  jest 
which  was  uttered,  and  the  coarse  laugh  of  triumph 
which  greeted  her  arrival. 

Only  one  of  that  gay  party  was  without  curiosity 
respecting  her  appearance. 

"That  one  was  the  chevalier  Maurice  de  Yainirey. 

He  pass.-d  by  her  as  she  was  brought  i  i,  and  see- 
ing what  it  was  that  lay  upon  the  litter,  contented  him- 
eelf  with  remarking: 

'•  A  young  ^ii'l !     The  sport  has  been  good," 

Then  resuiiiiiiif  his  seat  he  waited  listlessly  until  some 
disposition  should  bo  made  (^  the  irame  which  had  been 
so  bravely  captiiied. 

"  Ah,  is  tliis  our  threatened  rival?"  asked  one  of 
the  females, after  looking,  not  without  a  feelingof  envy, 
at  the  pale  features  of  tlie  abducted  girl. 

"Why,  she  has  fainted,"  remarked  another,  in  a  sar- 
castic voice. 

"Sleeping,  my  dear,"  said  the  first,  "  it's  much  more 
becoming.'' 

At  ihi.'?  lively  sally  of  wit,  a  general  laugh  went 
around  thi?  company 

■■  I'll  wager  that  her  eyes  are  but  half  closed,  and 
that  she  is  laughing  to  herself  at  all  the  trouble  you 
are  takiny^."  said  the  cynical  De  Vau(irey,  who  had, 
years  before,  lost  all  faith  in  woman  kind. 

And  it  is  little  wonder  that  in  tliat  dissolute  aL'e,  an 
honest,  noble-minded  man  should  have  believed  wi  m- 
anly   puiity  to  he  a  fable  of  the  past. 

■' Wlial  do  you  think    of   mv    treasure?"    askeil    De 
Presles.    who  had   been  gloating  his  sensual  eves    njioii  i  ineiit  when  she  showed 
ihe  foroi  of  the  fair  girl,  who  was  thus  in  his  pdwerf     ■  ue.ss.  ' 

/ 

f 


criticism. 

'•  But  you  have  not  seen 
to  say. 

'No,"  aiisweied  De  Vandrey,  coolly 
heard  lliose  yoiintf  ladies." 

The  young  nobleman  who  had  j)iov<d(ed  this  remark 
was  delighted  ;  hut  the  ladies  who  had  thus  freely 
yiveu  their  opinions  favored  him  with  a  glance  which 
lacked  not  the  will  to  wither  and  blast  the  instigator 
'of  this  retleciioia  upon  their  remarks. 

"  Isn't  she  goinu  to  wake  up?"  asked  one,  in  order 
Xo  cover  her  confusion. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  marquis,  as  he  took  a  small,  del- 
icately clias-jd  silver  flask  from  his  pocket.  "A  few 
dropsof  this  on  tiie  handkerchief  will  be  sufficient  to 
revive  her."' 

The  marquis  jioured  a  few  drops  of  the  liquid  upon 
the  priceless  lace  liaii<lkerchief  which  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  was  about  to  apply  it  when  the  desire  to 
heighten  the  eilect  caused  liini  to  sto(i. 

••  Wiiat  will  she  say  wlien  she  comes  to  her  senses  ?  " 
he  asked,  much  as  thoutrh  he  were  speculating  upon 
the  probable  actions  of  some  strange  animal  rather 
than  a  weak,  defenseless  girl. 

The  young  bankrupt  nobleman  looked  at  the  Clieva- 
lier,  as  if  hoping  that  he  would  answer  that  question, 
and  he  was  not  disappointed. 

■•  What  will  she  say  when  she  cornea  to  iier  senses'/" 
repeated  De  Vaudrey,  as  though  it  was  a  useless  ques- 
tion, the  answer  of  which  every  one  knew.  "  As 
though  we  did  not  know  by  heart  the  everlasting 
phrases  of  these  willingly  abducted  maidens.  Wlieu 
the  proper  moment  arrives  she  will  wake  up  and  go 
tliroiigli  it  all." 

Bursting  into  a  flood  of  imaginary  tears  the  Cheva- 
lier proceeded  to  give  an  imitation  of  the  kind  of  cries 
indulged  in  by  maiiiens  who,  as  he  said,  had  been  ab- 
ducted by  their  own  wishes. , 

■■  Where  am  I  .'  "  he  continued,  in  a  crying  voice. 
"Why  have  you  bioutiht  me  here?  What  is  it  you 
wish? — Great  Heavens!— ah!  my  mother!" 

Then  resuming  his  natural  tone  lie  adiled  : 

"Then  by  slow  degrees  this  profound  and  virtuous 
despair,  whicli  commenced  in  a  torrent  of  tears,  will  be 
drowned  iii-^a  flood  of  champagne." 

All  present  joined  in  a  hearty  laugh  atDe  Vaudrey's 
imitation  of  what  they  them-'elves  had  seen  many 
times. 

'^Let  us  see  wliether  the  Chevalier  has  remembered 
the  exact  words,"  said  the  young  lady  who  had  ex- 
pressed such  an  ardent  wish  to  see  the  Chevalier. 
••  Let  me  wake  her,  marquis." 

De  Presles  gave  Iter  the  iiaudkerchief  which  he  had 
saturated  with  the  liquid,  and  she  proceeded  to  try 
its  effects  upon  the  iiiiconscious  Henriette. 

All  present,  except  De  Vaudiey,  gathered  round  to 
enjoy  the  confusion  of  the  Noitnaii  beauty,  wlieii  she 
sh"uld  awake  to  find  herself  in  the  midst  of  the  gay 
partv,  and  the  youmrlady  who  had  received  the  hand- 
kerchief from  the  maiquis  applieci  the  restorative. 

Ileiiiiett''  had  inhaled  the  piintceni    odor  but   a    mo 
signs  of  returning  conscious 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


15 


•'Look  !  her  eves  open,"  exclaimed  ihe  one  who 
w!\s  ilins  bringiiif,'  her  lo  a  sense  of  her  misery. 

Ileniiette  opened  her  eves  in  a  diized  sort  of  way, 
liiic  one,  wlio,  accnsioiiied  to  the  darkness,  is  Buddeiily 
exposed  to  the  blinding  glare  of  ihe  snnlight. 

She  arose  to  a  sitting  posture,  mechanically,  and 
surveyed  those  around  her.  For  some  moments  she 
did  not  seem  to  understand  where  she  was,  or  what 
had  liappeiu'd. 

"Am  I  mad?"  she  asked,  in  atnazement  at  the 
view  which  met  her  gaze.  "Do  1  dream?"  and 
clasping  her  hands  to  her  head,  she  endeavored  to  re- 
call the  events  which   had  passed. 

'•  Ciievalier,  tiiat  is  not  exactly  the  old  way,"  said 
the  young  lady  who  had  awaken'ed  Hennelte  to  De 
V^audrey. 

'•No,  that  is  singular,"  said  the  chevaler,  with  his 
hahitual  sneer.      '"It  is  rather  an  inipiovenient." 

By  degrees  the  abducted  girl  remembered  what  had 
happened,  and  almost  in  a  flash,  she  understood  wheie 
«he  was. 

Spiinging  suddenly  to  her  feet,  she  confronted  the 
marquis. 

'•  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "has  this  outrage  been  com- 
mitted by  your  orders?     Is  this  your  house  ?  " 

With  a  simpering  smile  upon  his  thi)i  lips,  the  mar- 
quis ajiproached  the  now  thoroughly  enraged  girl. 

"All,  mademoiselle,  I  see  you  do  me  the  honor  to 
recognize  me,"  he  said,  bowing  low,  and,  as  it  seemed 
to  tlie  poor  girl,  in  mockery. 

"It  was  1   who " 

"  Not  another  word,  sir,"  said  Henrietle,  firmly,  and 
at  the  same  time,  as  tiiough  she  believed  her  wishes 
would  be  obeyed,  "  I  wi^^h  to  return  this  very  instant 
to  the  place  where  my  sister  awaits  me.  Come,  sir, 
at  once  give  your  servants  orders  to  take  me  back." 

De  Presles'inade  no  movement  towards  giving  the 
necessary  orders,  and  Henrietta  continued  in  a  tone 
of  command  : 

"  You  must — do  yon  hear  me,  sir? — you  shall,"  and 
from  tones  of  command  her  voice  unconsciously  sank 
into  a  plaint,  that  was  at  once  thrilling  jind  piiitid. 

It  would  rei(uire  something  more  than  llieloiieot 
the  voice,  touching  as  it  was,  lo  move  the  marquis 
from  his  purpo.se  ;  and  with  his  courtly  grace,  which 
seemed  in  the  present  case  a  mockery,  he  said  to  llen- 
riette: 

"  Mademoiselle,  after  all  the  trouble  we  have  taken 
to  bring  you  here  you  can  scarcily  suppose  we  will 
let  you  go  BO  soon." 

For  a  moment  lleiniette  regardecl  him  earne.-.tly, 
while  the  tears,  unbulden,  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  see  the  horriide  trap  you  havi-  laid  foi-  me;  br.t 
vile  as  vou  are  Ton  can  scarcely  undersiaiui  tlie  extent 
of  vour'ow  n  villainy,"  she  said  in  a  voice  which  she 
'<!\iniy  tried  to  render  lirm.  "  You  have  separate<i  me 
from  a  poor  chdd  whose  only  help  in  life  I  am;  whose 
misfortune  commands  the  respect  of  criminals,  even 
worse  : ban  Tour.-elf.  She  is  dependent  on  me  alone; 
without  mn  she  cannot  tstke  a  single  step,  for  she  is 
blind."  And  the  wailof  nticr  desolation  which  accom- 
panied these  words  would  have  toucJieil  the  heart  of  a 
savage.  4.  ', 

f  "Blind  ?■■  they  exclaimed,  as  the  words  arrested  the 
merry  laugh  and  broad  jest,  while  the  females  ex- 
pressed in  their  faces  the  compassion  they  now  began 
to  feel  for  the  poor  girl. 

"Yes,  blind  ami  alone!  "  continued  Ilenriette,  now 
80  carried  away  by  the  nitensity  of  her  feelings  that 
her  voice  resemblnd  moie  the  wail  of  a  lo«t  soul  than 
anything  human.  "  .\ lone  in  Paris,  without  money, 
without  help,  wandering  ■hrough  the  streets,  sightle.ss, 

r  homeless,  wild  with  des)iair." 

The  picture  which  her  uiuid  had  conjuied  up  was  too 
mnch  for  Ilenriette:  she  could  contiol  herself  no  long- 
er, and  she  burst  into  a  fl'  od  of  tears. 

"  What  will  become  of  her  ?"  she  sobbed,  half  to  her- 
self, and  with  the  question  came  again  the  maddening 


^ 


thought  tiiat  she  was  powerless  to  assist  her,  and  she 
turned  again  to  the  almost  stupefied  revellers. 

"She  is  blind  I  '  repeated  Ilenriette  with  vehe- 
mence. "Gentlemen,  do  vou  hear  me?  She  is 
blind!" 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  horrible  ! '"  exclaimed  the  Chevalier 
drf  Vandrey,  who  still  seated  by  the  table  was  greatly 
moved  by  Henriette's  words  of  despair  and  entreaty. 

The  Marquis  read  from  the  faces  of  his  guests,  that 
their  symjiaihies  were  going  out  towards  his  victim, 
and  as  far  as  his  small  soul  would  permit  he  became 
genei'ous. 

"  Oil,  well, 'compose  yourself,  mademoiselle,"  he  said 
in  a  studied  voice.  "  I  will  give  orders  to  have  search 
made  tor  her.  Mv  people  will  find  her,  and  bring  her 
here." 

"Bring  her  here?"  exclaimed  Henriette,  while  all 
the  anger  in  her  gentle  nature  was  ai-oused  by  the  in- 
sulting proposal.  "  She  in  this  house  ?  never  !"  Then 
clasping  her  hands,  she  asked  piteotisly :  "  Is  this  the 
only  answer  you  liave  to  my  prayer  ? "' 

The  poor  girl  saw  no  signs  of  lelenting  on  the  cold, 
bard  fac'e  before  her,  and  with  all  the  dignity  and  pas- 
sion of  a  pure  woman  who  is  insulted,  she  turned  for  a 
last  appeal  to  those  aroinid  Iter. 

"  Is  there  no  one  here,"  she  asKed,  "  who  dares  to 
raise  a  voice  against  this  man  ?  Is  there  not  among  all 
these  men  one  gentleman  ?" 

"  Y'ou  are  mistaken,  mademoiselle,"  said  De  Preslea 
in  a  voice  which  he  vainly  endeavored  to  make  digni- 
fied.    "  We  are  all  noblemen  and  gentlemen." 

The  utter  hollowness  of  these  lerms,  as  used  by  the 
Marquis  iu  comparison  with  his  present  mode  of  ac- 
tion, aroused  all  of  the  Chevaliei's  scoru  and  con- 
tempt. 

He  dashed  his  glass,  which  he  was  just  raising  to  hi» 
lips,  to  the  ground,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Then  among  all  these  noblemen  and  gentlemen,"' 
once  more  appealed  Henriette,  "  is  there  not  one  mail 
of  honor  '  " 

"  There  is  ;  nisidemoiselle  !"  exclaimed  De  Vandrey, 
going  towaiiis  her  with  an  angry  Mush  upon  his  face, 
caused  by  De  I'lesles'  brutal  conduct.  "Take  my  hand, 
we  will  leave  Ibis  place." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  yon,  monsieur,  a  thonsjind 
thanks  !"  excla'imed  Henriette,  as  she  took  the  prof- 
fered hand,  and  grasped  it  fervently,  as  a  drowning 
man  would  the  friendly  rope,  thrown  to  save  htm. 

The  maiquis  was  so  astonished  by  De  Vandrey's 
interlerence.  that  for  a  moment  he  was  unable  to  offer 
any  t)lijeciioji  to  this  answer  to  bis  victim's  piayer, 
and  the  Chevalier  had  conducted  Ilenriette  nearl);  to 
the  gulden  entrance,  before  De  Presles  recovered  from 
his  stupor. 

He  rushed  in  front  of  the  two  and  barred  their 
exit. 

"  Excuse  me,  Chevalier,  this  is  my  house,"  he  snid 
in  a  voice  hoarse  with  rage,  "and  1  do  not  per- 
mit  " 

"  Give  me  room,  sir,"  said  De  Vandrey  in  a  hatighty 
voice. 

"I  will  not  allow  this  insult.  Do  you  hear?  he 
asked  as  the  loud  chimes  of  a  clock  proclaimed  the 
hour  of  midnight.  "  After  twelve  o'clock  no  one  ever 
leaves  this  house." 

"Then  we  shall  be  the  fust  to  do  so;  answered  Do 
Vaudrev  in  a  cool  tone.     "  Stand  aside,  sir." 

"  Do  "vou  know,  Chevalier,"  said  the  marquis,  white 
and  trenibiing  with  rage,  "that  you  speak  to  me  as 
though  I  were  your  lackey  ?" 

•'  I  would  not  speak  to  n  lackey  who  acted  as  you 
do."  replied  the  Ciievalier  in  a  contemptHOua  tone.  "  I 
would  cane  him." 

"Euoutrh.  monsieur;  vou  are  more  than  insolent !  " 
exclaimed  De  Presles  drawing  his  sword,  and  standing 

on  the  defensive.     "  Attempt  to  pass  me  and 

"  I  certainly  shall."  interrupted  De  Vaudrey,  "JUid 
this  yoniig  hnly  with  me." 


■v. 


16 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS 


*?- 


Heuriette  clung  to  the  arm  of  her  protector  iu  af- 
fright, vvliile  the  other  occupants  of  the  giirtleu  gath- 
ered around  the  two  men,  aud  vainly  attempted  to 
quell  the  impeuding  iluel. 

"  Stand  back  geiitlemeu,"  commanded  the  marquis 
in  a  rough  voice.  "  After  such  an  insult  there  is  but 
one  course,"  and  stepping  into  a  cleared  space  at  the 
back  of  the  garden  he  awaited  the  chevalier. 

Nor  did  he  have  long  to  wait.  Conducting  Henrit 
ette  to  a  retired  3i)ol  near  him,  De  Vaudiey  drew  his 
sword,  and  without  any  other  preparation  began  the 
combat.  ,  _       i 

Pale  with  terror  Henrietta  saw  these  preparations  ; 
but  .she  could  only  clasp  her  hands,  and  with  a  whis^ 
pered  prayer  to  llim  who  has  said  :  "  Tiiou  shalt  not 
kill,"  breathlessly  awaited  the  result  of  the  duel. 

Both  men  were  experieaiced  swordsmen  ;  but  from 
the  first  De  Vaudrey  liad  the  advantage  owing  to  his 
coolness,  and  he  contented  himself  witli  parryiag 
the  wild  thrusts  of  the  infuriated  marquis. 

At  length  a  lunge  more  careless  than  the  others, 
gave  the  chevalier  the  opportunity  he  awaited,  and 
with  a  quick,  rapid  thrust  he  ran  his  sword  through 
the  body  of  his  antauonist. 

The  marquis  reeled  for  a  moment  as  tlie  sword  was 
withdrawn,  and  then  with  a  low  groan  sank  into  the 
arms  that  were  outstretched  to  receive  him. 

Without  deigning  to  cast  a  look  upon  his  fallen  foe, 
De  Vaudrey  raised  his  hat  with  courtly  grace,  antl 
offere<l  his  hand  to  Heuriette,  who  was  almost,  bewil- 
dered by  the  rapidity  with  which  the  combat  had  been 
finished. 

Never  before  had  she  seen  a  human  beintr  stricken 
down  by  a  violent  death,  and  she  could  not  repress  a 
passionate  look  upon  the  body  of  the  yopng  man  who 
had  so  lately  been  her  worst  enemy  ;  but  whose  life 
blood  \v;ia  now  slowly  welliuir  out  from  the  narrow 
wound  in  his  chest,  aud  slowly  dropping  upon  the 
graveled  walks. 

De  Vaudrey  took  the  girl's  hand  kindly  iu  his  own, 
and  saying. 

"  Come,  Mademoiselle,  we  are  now  free  to  go,''  led 
her  out  of  the  vile  place  froui  which  she  had 
been  released  only  by  the  interpoeitiou  of  death. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   BLIND   GIRLS     SUFFERINGS. 

The  garret  into  which  La  Fcochaid's  cruelty  and 
love  for  gain  had  consigned  Louise,  was  a  place  to 
make  even  the  stoutest  heart  quail. 

Imaufine  ii  low,  narrow  room,  reeking  with  odors 
from  decaying  wood  and  ra^s,  and  damp  from  the 
mists  which  arose  from  the  Seine,  and  penetrating  ev- 
ery crack  and  crevice,  caused  the  unhappy  inmate  to 
shiver  with  dread,  as  if  struck  by  a  blast  from  a  ciiar- 
uel  house. 

Tlie  blind  girl's  sufferings  were  fearful.  For  a  mo- 
ment all  would  be  quiet  as  the  tomb,  and  then,  startled 
by  some  unusual  noise,  the  rats  which  infeste<i  the  dis- 
mal place  vfouhl  scamper  from  their  b id imj<- places, 
causinj^  Louise  to  shrink  with  fear  from  tlie  almost  un- 
eaitlily  noise  of  which  she  knew  not  the  nieaniiitj. 

Her  iuiagination,  vivid  as  it  is  in  the  blind,  peopled 
the  fearful  place  with  terrors  which  were  intensified 
by  beiuLC  unseen. 

During  the  hours  of  the  day,  and  the  yet  more 
dreary  ones  of  the  niirht,  poor  Louise  crouched  close  to 
the  low  roof,  trembliuKat  every  new  noise  caused  by 
the  wind  or  waves,  and  even  pravlng  that  she  mif,dit 
be  visited  by  her  brutal  captors;  for,  much  as  she 
drea<ied  them,  the  sound  of  a  human  voice  would  be  a 
relief  to  her  over-taxed  nerves. 

After  what  seemed  to  her  to  be  many  day.«.  but  was 
in  reality    little    more  than  twenty-four  hours.  Louise  I 
heard  the  sound  of  heavy  fowl.step's  on    the  stairs,  ami  | 
immediately  after,  the  door  was  unlocked,  and  a   man  | 
entered.  ' 


The  voice  «fhich  she  heard  told  her  plainly  that  it 
was  Jacques  who  had  visited,  and  much  as  she  fear- 
ed him,  slie  gladly  welcnuied  his^ coining. 

Instinctively  slie  knew  that  iie  was  gazing  upon 
her,  and  before  he  spoke  she  sank  upon  her  knees  be- 
fore him  in  an  attitude  of  supplication. 

••  If  you  have  any  pity  in  your  lieart — if  vou  ever 
knew  what  it  is  to  suffer — take  me  from  this  fearful 
place."  ,       ;^   ,         ■     /  '     ■■    • 

The  tears  which  rolled  down  her  pale  cheeks  show- 
ed how  intense  washer  agony;  but  it  had  no  effect 
upon  the  wretch  before  her. 

A  coarse,  brutal  laugh  was  the  only  answer  to  her 
pleadings,   aud  she  sank  bacli  upon   the   floor  almost 
-lifeless. 

Villain  as  he  was,  Jacques  saw  that  their  victim 
could  not  survive  her  imprisonment  many  hours  long- 
er, for  even  as  it  was  her  day  of  terror  had  chant;e<l 
the  rosy-cheeked  Normandy  girl  as  much  as  would 
many  days  of  severe  sickness. 

The  pallid  cheeks,  the  deep  dark  circles  under  the 
eye.«,  and  the  marks  of  suffering  that  was  to  be  read  in 
every  feature  of  her  delicate  face,  told  how  severe  had 
been  her  anguish. 

'■  You  are  better  fitted  for  your  business  now  than 
vou  were  before  you  came  up  here,"  said  Jacques,  as 
he  exulted  over  the  misery,  and  delighted  in  llie  pain, 
he  had  been  the  means  of  causing. 

'•  Oh,  take  me  away  !  lake  me  awa^  !  I  will  do  as 
vou  tell  me  !  "  she  pleaded. 

"Will  you  beg?  " 

"Yes!  yes!" 

"  Well,  come  along  then,"'  and  he  grasped  her  by 
the  arm,  which  was  protected  only  by  a  thin  covering 
of  coarse  cotton,  with  alorce  that  caused  her  to  scream 
with   pain. 

'Devilish  tender,  ain't  you?"  he  asked  with  a 
chuckle,  as  he  brutally  dnigged  her  towyrd  the  door- 
way. 

"  Well,  is  she  willintr  to  help  her  friends  now  ?  "  ask  • 
ed  the  shrill  tones  of  Mother  Frochard's  voice  as  Lou- 
ise and  Jacques  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  I  guesi  s'le'U  behave  herself  now,"  laughed  Jacques. 
as  he  forced  the  blind  girl  to  descend  the  stairs  with- 
out any  assistance  from  him. 

"  Oil,  veiy  well,  very  well,  my  fine  lady,"  said  the 
old  woman  as  she  led  Louise  to  a  seiit  near  the  table. 
"  Hyou  have  been  tliere  long  enouKh,  I  suppose  you'd 
like  something  to  eat,  you  ungrateful  hussy." 

"  I  am  very  hungry,  iiiadi\ui,"  faltered  L'juise. 

"  Well,  it's  a  goo<i  thing, "  snarled  the  old  woman, 
"you'll  know  how  to  appreciate  what  vou  gets  after 
thi.s." 

Jacques,  seated  astride  of  the  chair,  with  his  arms 
lesting  on  the  back,  ei  joyin>;  the  scene  witli  evident 
zest,  while  Louise  listened  aiixiously  for  Pierre's "sj^ia-  — 
patliiziuK'  voice.  ,    ;/      ..  ' 

Let  us  leave  this  scene  for  a  while,  and  follow  Hen- 
I'ielle  while  she  accouipanies  her  deliverer  from  the 
beautiful  but  vile  garden  of  Bel-Air. 

They  had  reached  the  street  before  Heniiette  ven- 
tured to  speak  to  the  chevalier  of  her  giatitude  for  the 
assistance  he  had  rendered  lier.  Then  in  n  voice  trem- 
bling with  emotion,  she  thanked  liini  for  his  interfer- 
aiice,  and  begged  of  him  to  show  her  the  way  to  tlie 
place  where  she  had  been  robbed   of  her  sister. 

Tliei»disfance  was  very  great,  and  during  the  walk, 
the  Chevalier  De  Vaudiey  learned  all  of  the  history  of 
the  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had  rescued  from  such  a 
fearful  fate  ;  but  in  reply  to  her  in(|uiries  as  to  tlie 
probable  fate  of  her  sister  he  could  not  consciously 
liijhteu  her  heart. 

"But  I  shall  find  her,  shall  I  not,  monsieur  ?"  asked 
Heuriette,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  an  imploring 
gaze. 

For  a  moment  De  Vaudrey  thoutrht  he  would  tell 
her  how  little  cliaiice  Iliere  was  for  fiuiling  a  lost  a'ul 
immediately,  unless  some  kind,  honest  people  liad 
taken  conipjission  on  her.  and  even  I  lieu  it  would  re- 
ctuire  several  days.     But  as  he  looked  into  her  beauii- 


TUB  TWO  ORPHANS. 


17 


ful  eyes,  and  saw  there  the  hope  and  longing  tliai 
■^as' mirrored  in  them,  he  could  not  speak  those 
words  which  would  phnige  her  into  despair. 

Therefore  he  assumed  a  hopelul  air  which  was 
very  far  from  being  sincere,  and  replied  : 

"  We  shall  tiud  youi- sister,  mademoiselle  ;  but  you 
must  not  get  discouraged  if  it  takes  several  days,  for 
we  can  hope  to  find  no  i:lue  to  wliere  she  has  gone." 

Louise  was  not  satislied  with  tlie  ans'ver;  but  she 
said  noiliing,  and  in  ii  few  moments  more,  they  had 
reached  the  Normandy  coach  ollice. 

The  most  persistent  inquiry  revealed  nothing  rela- 
tive to  Louise's  whereabouts.  No  one  liad  seen  her 
except  when  slie  was  with  her  sister,  and  ii  was  with 
a  heavy  and  sorrowful  lieart  tliat  Heuriette  was  forc- 
ed to  relinquish  the  search  until  the  morrow. 

The  chevalier  conducted  her  to  a  lioarding  house, 
where,  after  a  brief  recital  of  Heuriette's  history,  she 
vras  allowed  to  lemain. 

Need  we  recoinit  the  many  long  and  fruitless 
searches  of  that  faithful  sister  for  the  blind  oi-phan  1 
Can  the  reader  not  guess  that,  charmed  by  the  beanty 
of  face  and  mind  of  the  beautiful  Ilenriette,  ihe  Chev- 
ftlier  de  Vaudrey  was  ready  to  tling  away  all  dreams 
of  wealth  and  kingly  favor,  and  entreat  the  young 
girl  to  become  his  wife. 

And  why  shall  we  describe  all  of  Louise's  sufferings 
for  three  long  months'?  They  were  surely  as  would 
melt  the  heart  of  stone  to  pity,  and  yet  her  cruel  cap- 
toi's  shew  no  mercv. 

Tlierefore  we  will  pass  over  three  months,  during 
which,  each  day,  lo  both  the  sorrowing  orphans, 
brought  ihe  same  sad  story  of  misery  and  despair,  and 
in  our  next  chapter  present  a  new  scene  to  the 
readfr. 


CHAPIER  X. 

THE  MINISTER  OF  POLICE. 

The  newly  appointed  minister  of  police  was  the 
Count  de  Linieres,  as  we  heard  at  the  garden  of  Bel- 
Aii'. 

He  was  the  nncio,  and  until  that  young  gentleman 
attained  his  majoiity,  the  guaidiau  of  the  Cheviilier 
jMuuiice  de  Vaudrey. 

Count  deLinieres  was  of  a  very  old  and  proud  fam- 
ily .  but  the  hope  of  distinction  iixiuced  him  to  accept 
(if  the  high  office  tendered  )iim  by  the  king,  who  lion- 
uied  him  for  his  sterling  worth. 

It  is  shoitly  after  his  accession   to  office,  and  before 
,  rillU(]ns  well  acquainted  with  the    intricate  workings   of 
•*^  At!  v'ast  and  complicated  body  over   which    he   is   the 
acknowledged  head,  that  we  present   him  to  our  read- 
ers. 

A  tall,  portly  old  gentleman  of  some  si.Ktv  years  of 
age  is  he,  and  one  win)  as  a  friend  would  be  true, 
and  as  an  enemy,  implacable. 

On  this  particular  al'tenioon  he  has  just  dismissed 
several  of  nis  sul)()r<liuate^',  an<i  is  now  giving  some 
necessary  instruct  ions  to  the  chief  clerk. 

■  I  desire,''  said  the  count,  "  that  tlieie  should  be  no 
relaxation  in  the  severity  of  the  police  towards  gam- 
bling dens,  low  drinking  places,  and  other  haunts  of 
crime.  Professional  beggars,  too,  must  bo  driven  from 
the  streets."' 

These  orders  were  delivered  in  the  tone  ol  a  man 
who,  having  weighed  what  he  is  about  to  say,  expects 
to  be  obeywi. 

"  Their  number  increases  daily,"  rojilied  the  clerk, 
with  a  gesture  expres.iive  of  humility  and  deference. 

"The  king  is  desirou.s  that  a  .stop  should  be  put  to 
the  scandals  which  <lisgiaeed  the  ailministration  ot  the 
police  during  the  preceding  reign."  continued  De  Lin- 
leree,  speaking  slowly.  "  Night  brawls  went  unpun- 
ished, and  ab<luclions,  bringing  shame  and  disgrace 
upon  manj    honest  families,  were  of  common   occur- 


rence. And  apropos  of  that  subject.  1  have  here  a  re- 
port which  needs  an  explanation.  How  is  it  possible 
that  a  young  girl  could  be  abducted  in  the  open  streets 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  there  should  be  no 
one  to  oppose  such  an  outrage  .'  " 

"  There  are  scoundrels  in  Paris  audacious  and  dex- 
terous enough  to  do  anything,"  replied  the  clerk,  as  if 
that  were  sufficient  excuse  for  the  short-comjngs  of 
the  detectives. 

■'  Where  were  the  police  ?  "  asked    the  count  stern- 

"  They  have  discovered  the  accomplices  of  the  chief 
actor,"  said  the  clerk,  tiying  to  evade  an  answer  to  his 
chiefs  very  pertinent  inquiry,  "and  compelled  them 
to  confess.' 

''Three  months  have  elapsed  since  this  most  daring 
outrage,  and  the  really  guilty  ones,  the  instigators  of 
the  crime  have  not  been  punished,"  said  De  Linieres, 
with  a  look  of  reproach  at  his  subordinate. 

"  That  is  due,  my  lord,  to  certain  circumstances," 
was  the  answer,  cr  perhaps  we  should  say  excuse. 

"  What  circumstances  f  "  said  the  count,  in  evident 
surprise  that  any  circumstance  should  prevent  the  [mn- 
ishment  of  a  crime  where  the  perpetrators  had  been 
discovered.  '•  To  whom  does  tJiis  chateau  of  Bel-Air 
belong  1  " 

'  To  the  Marquis  de  Presles,"  answered  the  clerk. 

"  De  Presles  !"  repeated  the  count.  "An  ancient 
and  illustrious  family  whose  last  scion  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  stake  all  its  gloiies  on  the  cast  of  a  die,  or  the 
thrust  of  a  sword  in  a  drunken  brawl.  But  the  girl — 
after  the  duel  what  became  of  her  .-  " 

"  She  was  carried  off  by — by — by  the  antagonist,  or 
the  marquis,''  was  the  hesitating  answer  that  roused 
the  count's  suspicions  at  once,  and  he  asked  quickly 
while  he  eyed   the  clerk  with  distrust : 

"The  name  of  the  Marquis'  opponent?  What  is 
it?" 

"The  Chevalier  Maurice  de  Vaudrey,"  replied  the 
clerk  with  reluctance. 

"Jly  nephew!"  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman  in 
surprise,  while  an  expression  of  pain  passeil  over  his 
face  at  the  tliought  that  his  nephew,  whom  he  loved 
so  dearly,  and  whom  he  had  sn[ijiosed  to  be  the  stuil 
of  honor,  should  be  engageil  in  wliat  he  supposed  to  he 
a  drunken  brawl. 

A  tier  a  moment's  reflection,  he  turned  to  the  old  clerk 
who  W!is  regarding  his  chief  with  a  look  of  soriow, 
and  said  in  a  voice  which  was  singularly  soft  and 
sweet  for  a  man. 

"I  a|ipieciateihe  sentiment  that  caused  vou  to  hesi- 
tate." 

The  clerk  bowed  low.  and  was  turning  away  when 
the  count  stopped  him. 

"  For  the  fuiiire,  sir,  remember  that  justice  is  no  re- 
specter of  persons.'' 

The  chiefs  voice  now  was  as  harsh  and  command- 
ing as  it  was  before  low  and  soft. 

"Are  you  sure  that  it  was  the  Chevalier  de  Vau- 
drey 1 " 

"'Quite  sure.  We  have  a  list  of  all  who  were  pre- 
sent— both  geiilleiaen  iind   ladies." 

"These  gentlemen,"  said  De  Linieres  in  an  angry 
tone,  "must  be  made  tj  understand  that  such  orgies 
will  be  tolerated  no  longer.  It  is  not  enouyh  to  bear 
a  noble  name;  it  must  be  borne  worthily,  and  these 
/«c/(Minust  choose  between  Salpetriere  and  e.xile,'" 

'Do  vou  wish,  my  lord,  that  this  affair  should  be 
entered  in  tlie  secret  archives  of  the  police  I '" 

"The  secret  ailhives  of  the  police?"  asked  the 
count,  in  great  suipiise  that  there  should  be  anything 
of  the  kit.d.     ''Do  such  records  really  exist  ?" 

"Certainly,  my  lord.'"  replied  the  clerk,  wonderinLT 
not  a  little  at  the  ifinoraiice  of  bis  eliiif.  " 'I'lie  secfet 
and  complete  history  of  every  noble  family  in  France 
uiav  be  loiind  there."  You  have  but  to  mentiona  name 
anil  ill  live  minutes  the  desire:l  volume  will  be  in  yuur 
liaiids.  " 


18 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


The  eoQQt  remained  in  deep  thought  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

There  had  been  in  his  house,  as  in  every  man's,  a 
skeleton  in  the  closet,  and  that  skeleton  was  some  se- 
cret aorrow  which  preyed  upon  his  wife,  who  was  a 
De  Vaudrey. 

If  the  old  clerk's  words  were  true,  then  here  was  an 
opportifnity  for  hira  to  discover  what  he  had  so  long 
Tainly  sought. 

Here  he  could,  without  humbling  himself  to  any  one, 
penetrate  that  mystery  in  his  wife's  life  whicU  she  had 
80  long,  and  so  successfully  concealed. 

But  it  must  be  done  at  the  expense  of  his  honor,  and 
at  the  moment  there  was  a  great  struggle  going  on  in 
his  mind. 

Sliould  he  avail  himself  of  this  iuformatiou  which  his 
positieu  entitled  iiim  to  possess  ;  but  which  his  man- 
hood revolted  at '? 

At  last  it  was  decided  in  his  mint!.  He  wouM  have 
the  volume  completed,  and  at  some  future  tmie,  wlien 
he  should  be  more  accustomed  to  the  idea,  he  would 
refer  to  it. 

"  If  the  history  of  the  house  of  De  Vaudrey  is  there, 
let  that  history  be  couipleted,"'  he  said  quickly,  as  it 
afraid  to  linger  near  the  temptation  any  longer. 

The  clerk  bowed  low,  ami  departed  upon  his  mission 
and  at  the  same  time  he  went  out,  Picard,  the  magniti- 
ceut,  who  allowed  himself  to  be  called  valet  to  the 
Chevalier  de  Vaudrey,  entered. 

'■Ah,  Picard!  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come.  I 
wish  to  speak  to  you  about  your  master.  How  is  he 
behaving  himself  ?  " 

Here  was  a  chance  for  Picard  which  he  was  not  dis- 
posed to  let  slip  him,  and  after  his  extravagant  bows, 
he  answered  in  his  peculiar  voice  : 

"  With  all  due  respect,  my  lord,  his  conduct  is  scan- 
dalous, perfectly  scandalous,  and  unbecoming  a  noble- 
man of  his  rank." 

Picard  looked  for  some  expression  of  surprise  upon 
his  listener's  face,  and  failing  to  see  it  there,  continued 
in  an  injured  tone,  as  if  his  master's  behavior  vvas  a 
tetiection  upon  him  as  a  servant. 

'•Formerly  he  had  a  few  gentlemanly  associates, 
with  whom  he  occasionally  amused  himself,"  said  Pi- 
card, slowly.  '•  And  saw  lif^,  thereby  giving  me  some 
opportunities.  Alas!  it  is  different  now.  For  the  last 
three  mouths  he  has  changed  entiiely.  Indeed,  my 
lord,  my  life  has  become  so  monotonous,  that  a  man  of 
sp'rit  like  myself  cannot  stiud  it  any  longer." 

•■Ami  to  understand  that  you  wish  to  leave  his 
service?"  asked  the  minister,  with  a  pieoccupied  look 
npon  his  face. 

■•Yes,  my  lord!"  exclaimed  Picar<l,  eagerly.  "The 
chevalier,  your  nephew,  has  principles  which  I  can  no 
longer  accept.  They  clash  with  all  my  opinions,  and 
although  the  chevalier  thinks  proper  to  compromise  his 
nobility,  I  cannot  compiomise  my  liverv,"  and  a  look 
of  virtuous  indignation  was  upon  Picard's  round  face, 
giving  it  a  very  comical  appearance. 

'•Very  well, "said  De  Linieres,  "I  will  take  yon 
back  into  mv  service." 

"You  wifll''  exclaimed  Picard  in  delight,  and  then 
giving  a  si>,'h  of  relief,  and  straightening  himself  np  as 
tar  as  his  diminutive  stature  would  permit,  he  addeit. 
"  Ah,  my  lord,  you  have  relieved  me,  and  I  resume 
my  personal  dignity." 

"I  will  do  as  I  have  said  on  wne  comniiou,  auded 
the  count,  and  at  this  Picard's  face  len>,'thened  won- 
derfully." "  I  wish  you  to  remain  for  a  tinve  with  my 
nephew.  It  is  important  that  I  should  know  his  move- 
ments. I  could  employ  the  police  ;  bat  I  have  alreadv 
learned  too  much  from  them,  and  tluouifh  you,  who 
are  attacheilto  him,  1  desire  to  know  the'rest." 

'•The  rest?"  echoed  Picard.  in  amazement.  "What 
has  he  been  doing?  What  do  the  police  know?"  and 
now  the  valet's  face  brightened  as  he  ihoui^ht  himself 
upon  the  verife  of  discovery  of  an  escapa.ie  of  his 
ma.'^ter'a,  which  w-<3  all  tlie  faithful  valet  humjered 
tor.  "         1 


"  They  know  that  after  the  duel 

"The'duei:  What  duel?"  interrupted  Picard.  fm-- 
getting  in  his  eagerness  to  know  all,  the  respect  d-ie 
the  minister  of  police. 

"  Do  you  pretend  not  to  know  that  he  killed  the 
Marquis  de  Presles  in  a  duel  about  a  woman?  "asked 
the  count,  while  he  retrarded  the  valet  with  a  piercing 
gaze. 

"  He  fought  a  duel,  and  dangerously  wounded  his 
antagonist,  and  on  account  of  a  woman  !"  exclaimed 
Picard  in  an  ecstacy  of  delight,  that  his  master  should 
be  concerned  in  such  affairs,  while  Picard  considered 
the  only  proper  thing  for  a  nobleman  to  do.  "  Oh,  the 
sly  dog,  and  I  wanted  to  leave  him !  " 

•'  No,  no,  not  yet,"  said  the  count  quickly,  catching 
the  last  of  the  valet's  remark,  without  hearing  the 
first.  "  I  desire  that  you  remain  with  him,  and  dis- 
cover where  he  hides  himself." 

"  Of  course  I  will !  "  exclaimed  Picard,  now  perfect- 
ly vrilling  to  remain  with  the  chevalier  any  length  of 
time.  •'  I  thought  he  would  not  disgrace  the  blood  of 
a  French  nobleman.  Certainly,  I'll  find  out  this  saucy 
little  beauty  for  whom  he  neglects  all  his  friends,'"  and 
tie  added  in  the  tone  of  a  connoiseur :  •'Of  course  she 
must  be  little  and  saucy,  with  a  jaunty,  piquant  air. 
That's  the  style  I  like.' 

"  Oh,  indeed,'  said  the  count  in  surprise. 

"  Doubtless  he  has  done  everything  in  good  style,'' 
continued  Picard,  who  in  his  ecstacy  was  impervious 
to  everything  but  the  one  satisfactory  idea  that  now 
engrossed  all  his  thoughts.  "He  has  probably  taken 
some  elegant,  quiet,  little  house,  the  rooms  hung  in 
velvet,  and  furnished  in  silk  and  laces,  with  everything 
of  the  sort.' 

"  Why,  at  that  rate  you  will  ruin  your  master,"  said 
the  count,  surprised  at  lliis  (ihase  of  Picard's  character, 
which  he  had  never  seen  before." 

"  If  she's  worth  the  trouble,  where's  the  harm  in  a 
little  ruin  ?  "  asked  the  valet  innocently. 

How  much  longer  Picard  wou'd  have  continued  to 
express  his  delight,  and  what  he  might  not  liave  saiil 
to  further  surprise  the  count,  is  a  matter  of  conjecture, 
for  at  this  moment  the  Countess  de  Linieres  was  an- 
nounced, and  the  count  at  once  dismissed  Picard,  with 
an  injunction  not  to  forget  his  orders. 

"  I  will  obey  them,  my  lord,"  said  the  valet  as  he 
bowed  himself  out,  and  durinx  his  walk  to  hisraaster'i 
house,  he  muttered,  to  the  infinite  delight  of  the  gam- 
ins who  heard  hiin,  "  Oh,  Master  Chevalier,  you  are 
a  sly  dog,  and  I  thought  you  a  saint." 

As  the  countess  entered,  her  husband  greeted  her  af- 
fectionately, and  conducted  her  to  a  seat. 

'I   was   about  to   come  to  you,"   said   the  count, 
"but  you  have  anticipated  me.     1  desire  to  speak  wiue.i^ 
you  on  the  subject  of  j'our  nephew,  the  Chevaiier  ""de  ^ - 
Vaudrey,  and   to  ask  you  to  prepare  him  for  the  mar- 
riage which  the  king '' 

'•  Wishes  to  impose  on  him,''  interrupted  the  coun- 
tess bitterly 

•'  Impose  on  him  ? ''  repeated  De  Linieres.  "  It  is  a 
magnificent  alliance  which  will  complete  the  measure 
of  liie  distinguished  honors  with  which  his  majesty 
deigns  to  favor  us." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  the  Chevalier  yet  ? '' 

"No;  but  I  am  expectinar  him   every  moment,  and 

1  wished'to  talk  with  lum  in  your  piesence." 

As  if  this  conversation  had  some  influence  over  him, 

De  Vaudrey  entered  at  this  moment. 

"Ah,  Chevalier!"  exclaimed  the  count,  "I  am  glad 
to  see  you.  The  countess  and  myselt  have  aa  impor- 
tant communication  to  make  to  you." 

De  Vaudrey  looked  at  his  uncle  in  surprise. 

"My  dear  Maurice,''  said  the  count,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  "the  kinur  did  me  the  honor  to  receive  me 
yesterday,  and  he  spoke  of  yon." 

"Of  me?"  asked  De  Vaudrey,  in  surprise 

"Hetakesa  gieat  iiiterest'iii  you,'  continued  De 
Linieres.  speaki»f  quickly,  and  in  a  forced  tone.       Ha 


THE  TWO  OliPIIANS. 


Pak  with  terror,  Henrktte  could  only  chsp  hfr  Jiatnf.-i  nvd  hr'"ithlcssly  await  the  result  of  thr  r/vH. 


THE  TWO  0KPIIAX8. 


19 


wishes  you  to  accept  a  position  at  conn,  ana  aeeires  at 

the  same  time  Ihiit  yon  should  miin-y." 

As  the  count  said  this,  lie  watched  De  Vaudrey's 
lace  with  an  iuteutness  that  was  ahnost  painful.  He 
expected  to  know  by  this  means  wlieilier  the  stories 
wliich  appeared  to  be  so  well  aulheiiticaled  were  true 
and  he  sincerely  hoped  that  he  might  be  able  to  be- 
lieve them  the  fabi'ications  of  some  enemy. 

"Mairy?"  aslied  De  Vaudrey,  as  tlKnigh  he  could 
not  believe  liis  uncle  reii»v  meant  what  he  said. 

The  countess  waited  a5  anxiously  for  De  Vaudrey's 
answer  as  did  her  husband,  although  from  a  ditt'erent 
reason.  She  loved  tlie  young  man  before  her,  and  his 
happiness  and  well  being  were  very  dear  to  her. 

"  My  dear  nephew,"  she  said  kindly.  "I  see  tiiat 
this  news  .'<urpiise8  you.  Yet  there  is  no  fear  that  the 
king's  choice  will  do  violence  to  your  leeliiigs.  The 
lady  whom  his  majesty  Iihis  chosen,  has  youth,  beauty, 
anJ  fortune." 

'■  In   proof  of  which,  I   have   only  to   tell   you  that 

his  choice  is  Mademoiselle ''  the  count  attempted  to 

say,  but  was  interrupted  by  the  chevalier. 

'•  Do  not  name  her,"  he  said  excitedly. 

■'  Why  not?"'  asked  his  uncle,  in  astonishment. 

"  Because  I  refuse  to  marry." 


I 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    SECRET. 


The  chevalier's  emphatic  refusal  to  marry  filled  his 
uncle  wiih  astonishment. 

That  any  one  in  their  right  mind  should  refuse  to 
accept  of  the  means  of  advancement  to  the  royal  fa- 
voi,  when  it  was  to  be  purchased  by  such  a  simple, 
and  ill  the  present  case,  such  an  agreeable  means,  was 
past  the  old  gentleman's  comprehension. 

It  required  some  little  time  for  him  to  uiulerstaiid 
thiit  his  nephew  had  rejected  the  king's  flattering  pro- 
posals, and  then  his  anger  began  to  get  the  better  of 
iiis  surprise. 

The  Countess  de  Linieres,  with  a  womans  ready 
wit,  understood  that  there  could  be  but  one  cause  for 
such  a  decided  refusal,  and  that  must  be  that  he  was 
already  iu  love. 

The  chavalier  was  the  sou  of  her  sister,  wiio  had 
die<i  several  years  previous  to  liie  opening  of  our  storv, 
and  for  that  reason,  as  well  as  for  his  own  noble  qual- 
ities, she  loved  him  as  she  would  had  lie  t)een  her 
own  sou. 

Understanding  her  husband's  qnick  and  variable  tem- 
per, the  countess  darted  a  waiiiing  glance  at  De  Vim- 
drey,  which,  if  it   wasseen^  was  not  heedi-d. 

'•  H'-fore  comniilling  yourself  irrelrievalilv.  Cheval- 
ier de  Vaudrey,  reth-cl,'  said  the^j'ount,  in  an  ajigiy 
toi«?.  ''1  know  llnTweakness  of  youth,  and  the  tempt- 
ations to  wliich  it  is  e.\poKed.  1  also  know  that  wiih- 
in  certain  limits  it  is  well  to  close  ihi;  eyes  to  faults, 
provided  tliey  are  not  too  serious.  This  marriage  is  an 
honor  whicii  his  majesty  desires  to  ctuifer  upon  you, 
and  when  the  king  has  spoken " 

"1  will  iio  to  the  king,"  interrupied  the  chevalier, 
and  si)ealving  with  great  rapidity  and  earnestness,  he 
added:  "I  will  thank  Lim  for  his  goodness  I  will 
place  my  services  at  his  disposal.  My  devotion,  my 
life  are  his;  but  my  atlections  are  my  own,  and  I  wish 
to  remain — free."' 

"  Free  I"  exclaimeil  the  count,  scornfully.  "  Free  to 
lead  a  life  of  dissipation  which  you  may  not  always  be 
able  to  hide  from  the  world." 

These  words  which  implied  so  much,  stung  the  noble- 
hearted  De  Vandiey  more  llian  any  words  of  anger  or 
reproach  could  have  done. 
/^      •'  There  is  nothing  in  my  life  to  hide,''  he  said  proud- 
/     ly,  but  impatiently,  "nothing  for  which  I  have  rea- 
l     son  to  blush." 

\        "Are   you   sure   of   that,    Chevalier?"     asked   the 
N^ouut  iu  K  tone  that  plainly  said  tlie   speaker    knew 


difTerently.  Conscious  of  his  own  uprightness,  this 
doubt  cast  upon  his  word  was  more  than  the  chevalier 
could  bear,  and  he  advanced  towards  his  uncle  with  a 
menacing  air. 

"Monsieur!"  he  began,  hotly.     "  I  cannot " 

"Maurice!  my  husband!''  exclaimed  the  countess, 
as  she  stepped  between  the  two  men  to  prevent  those 
words  from  being  spoken  which  botli"  would  have 
afterwards  deeply  regretted.  "Defer  the  conversa- 
tion for  the  present.     Permit  me  to  speak  to  Maurice." 

"Very  well,"  said  De  Linieres,  sieinly.  Tlien 
turning  to  the  chevalier,  he  said  in  a  voice  whicli  he 
had  never  before  used  to  ins  nephew.  "We  will  re- 
turn to  this  another  time.  You  will  rememlier  that, 
as  head  of  the  family,  it's  honor  is  confided  \o  my  care, 
and  I  will  not  suffer  any  one  to  sully  it  with  a  stain.'' 

Do  Vaudrey  had  nearly  lost  all  control  of  his  leui- 
per,  and  iu  a  moment  the  outbreak  which  the  countess 
was  so  anxious  to  avoid,  would  have  broken  forth, 
had  not  the  count,  without  giving  his  nephew  lime  to 
speak,  said  quickly  ; 

"  1  leave  you  with  the  Countess,  and  I  hope  that  y<Mir 
respect  and  affection  for  her  will  cause  you  to  lend 
more  weight  to  her  counsels  than  you  are  disposed  to 
give  to  mine." 

As  if  fearing  that  he  might  have  tried  the  young 
man's  temper  too  far  ;  or  that  he  did  not  wish  to  ju'o- 
long  a  useless  controversy,  the  count  left  the  room  as 
he  finished  the  sentence,  and  Dr.  Vaudrey  was  alone 
with  his  aunt. 

The  countess  went  up  to  the  noble-looking  young 
man,  and  taking  his  hands  iu  her's,  asked  iu  a  sweet., 
winning  voice : 

"  Who  is  this  woman  you  love  ?  What  obstacle  pre- 
vents the  avowal  of  your  passion  !  If  it  is  only  t» 
matter  of  fortune,  take  mine,  it  is  :ill  at  your  disposal 
and  I  will  give  it  to  you  cheerfully." 

"Ah!  where  shall  I  find  a  heart  like  yours^"  ex- 
claimed tlie  chevalier  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emo- 
tion. "  You  have  divined  my  secret.  I  love  a  young 
girl  as  charming  as  she  is  pure.  I  love  her.  yet  my 
lips  have  never  sought  hers.  1  adore  her,  yel  I  liavo 
never  dared  to  whisper  my  passion." 

"  Her  name — her  family  i''  asked  the  countess  ea- 
gerly. 

"  She  was  born  of  the  people,''  said  De  Vaudrey 
proudly,  yet  lendeily.  "  She  is  an  oi[ihan,  and  lives 
l>y  the  labor  of  her  hands." 

The  countess,  who  had  noverforan  oim^ut  imagined 
such  an  answer  to  her  (jnsstion,  was  :5nrpiiseil,  and 
she  showed  jilaiiily  thai  trrief  was  mingled  with  her 
surprise. 

"  And  you  would  make  such  a  woman  your  wife  ?" 
she  asked  reproachtully. 

"  Do  irot  judge  her  until  you  have  seen  her,"  en- 
trealed  tha  chevalier.  "  Consent  to  see  her,  and  then 
advise  me,"  and  the  young  man  took  the  countess' 
hands  in  his,  and  looked  iinploringly  into  her  face. 

But  his  aunt  turned  away  fiom  him  with  a  gesiure 
of  sorrow. 

"  In  such  a  marriage,"  she  said,  sadly,  •  there  can  be 
no  happiness  tVw  yon,  and  for  hei  <.>nly  misery.  Believe 
me,  I  know  the  result  of  these  uiieciual  unions.  You 
must  reiioiince  her.  You  owe  obedience  to  your  fami- 
ly, anil  to  your  king." 

As  the  countess  said  these  words,  which,  if  tliey 
were  obeyed,  would  doom  the  young  man  to  .give  up 
all  that  the  world  held  for  him,  she  turned  wearily 
away,  and  sank  into  a  chair,  as  if  the  advice  came  only 
from  the  echo  of  her  husband's  words,  and  not  from 
her  own  loving  heart. 

"Can  you  tell  me  tJiat 'f  ■  asked  the  chevalier  in  a 
tone  of  surprise.  "  Vou  wl;o  have  suffered  so  louch, 
and  who  have  been  the  victim  to  a  blind  obedience 
whicli  has  sacrificed  your  life,  and  made  you  uiisera- 
ble  !" 

"How  do  yon  know?"  exclaimed  the  countess, 
springing  from  her  chair  as  if  De  Vaudrey's  words  luid 
struck  directly  to  her  heart,  and  in  their  passaifc  had 
lorn  open  wounds  iIkiI  the   po^u-    woman    thought  u» 


so 


THE  TWO  ORPILVNS. 


one  save  lieiself  auJ  the  good  God  knew  of.  "  Who 
told  you  ttiid  i  Who  lias  roiu  aside  tlie  veil  from  my 
secret,  aiii  revealed  to  you  the  cause  of  the  anguish  I 
have  surtered  for  eighteen  long  years '/ " 

Tlie  chevalier  looued  sadly  upon  the  woman  he  had 
wounded  so  deeply  by  his  words. 

"There  was  hut  one  soul  in  all  the  world  tenderand 
noble  enough  to  appreciate  and  sustain  your  own  in 
its  trials,"'  he  said  in  a  gentle  voice  that  seemed  to  cany 
i  balm  witli  it.  Your  dearly  beloved  sister — my  mo- 
ther. In  her  last  moments  she  exacted  from  me  the 
jiroinise  to  devote  myself  to  yon  should  misfortune 
e»-ercoaio,  and  I  gladly  gave  my  word.' 

Forainoinent  the  countess  stood  as  one  suddenly 
deprived  of  speech,  and  then  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  speak- 
i,i:<  to  herself,  she  said: 

'"And  she  told  vou  of  my  sufferings,  my  despair. 
Yes,  yes,  yon  speak  the  truth,  my  life  has  been  one 
Jong  sacritice  to  duty,"  and  resting  Jier  liead  on  h(;r 
binds,  she  alio  wed  her  thoughts  to  wander  thront-'h 
Jill  the  dark  and  dreary  avemies  of  the  past,  disturb- 
ing memories  that  slept  only  too  lightly,  and  awaken- 
ing sad  recollections  that  slie  had  struggled  to  bury  ; 
but  which  were  ever  rt^ady  to  I'ise  up  against  her,  and 
assert  their  right  to  inflict  sorrow  wiih  all  the  keenness 
of  old. 

"  1  was  young  an<i  mad,"  she  exclaimed,  as  rising 
from  her  feet  she  paced  the  long,  magniticently-fnr- 
nished  rooms  with  a  nervous  step,  while  her  rich 
T'liies  trailed  after  her,  rustling  as  if  in  mockery  at  her 
grief  "  I  loved  and  was  loved,"  she  continued  hastily, 
much  as  though  she  was  excusing  lierself  to  theyoun^' 
mm  who  gazed  in  ]iity  upon  her,  "and  in  my  love  I 
knew  no  wrong.  I  consented  to  a  secret  mairiage 
with  a  man  beneath  me  in  rank." 

The  chevalier  attempted  to  speak.  He  wished  to 
check  the  tale  of  woe  and  sorrow  which  he  knew  she 
was  about  to  lelate  ;  but  she  heeded  iiim  not,  and  con- 
tinued in  a  voice  which  told  of  the  anguish  in  her 
heart. 

'■  Our  secret  was  soon  discovered,"  she  said.  "They 
thought  him  my  lover,  and  killed  him  almost  under 
mr   very   eyes,  ;ind  1  became  a  mother." 

De  Vandrey  conld  not  restrain  the  tears  which  over- 
ill  >wed  his  eves,  as-  the  sorrowing  woman,  in  a  voice 
<l nibly  touching  by  the  penr-np  emotion  i*.  betrayed, 
«pok  J  those  words  which  she  never  before  had  dared 
to  utter. 

"  The  family  bono."  demanded  that  my  child  should 
disappear,"  she  continued,  while  her  voice  grew  hard 
and  cold  again.  "  Because  mv  hand  was  promised  to 
the  Count  de  Linieres.  'I'he  family  honor  deuiaiided 
that  I  shonld  deceive  an  honorable  man,  or  sacrilice 
the  lite  of  my  child.  I  bowed  to  the  indexible  will  of 
luy  father." 

The  mother's  love  and  sorrow  overpowered  her,  and 
her  eyes,  which  had  been  so  dry  and  hard,  were  n«>w 
made  tender  by  the  blessed  boon  of  tears. 

'•I  prayed  that  God  would  have  i)ity  on  the  life  of 
the  little  creature  whom  I  had  scarce  embraced  when 
they  cruelly  tore  it  from  me,''  she  continued,  while 
the  sobs  escapeii  with  the  words.  "I  consoled  myself 
with  the  hope  that  perhaps  I  should  see  it  again  some 
day.  Alas!  the  days  have  passed  into  months,  the 
months  into  years,  and  all  my  prayers  are  in  vain." 

"  My  poor  aunt."  said  the  chevalier,  as  he  took  her 
hand  tenderly  in  his  ami  endeavored  in  the  caressing 
touch  he  bestowed  upon  it,  to  impart  some  of  the  sym- 
pathy ami  love  he  felt. 

"  So  cruel,  cruel,  that  I  often  ask  myself  if  it  u-onld 
not  have  been  better  had  they  killed  me  too,  "  said  the 
poor  woman,  again  piicing  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
room  "  Yes,  yes,  far  more  merciful  than  to  have  in- 
flicted the  punishment  I  have  sutiered  for  so  many 
years.  I  dare  not  think  she  lives;  for  if  she  does,  into 
what  abyss  may  not  my  criminal  abandonment  have 
plniiired  her." 

'•  Try  not  to  let  your  mind  rest  upon  those  things, 
my  poor  aunt."  sai'd  the  chevalier,  in  a  voice  as  low 
and  sweet  as  a  woman's. 


The  countess  did  not  heed  him. 

The  past  had  full  power  over  her  now,  and  her  voice 
was  strained  as  though  it  were  not  powerful  enough 
to  sustain  the  weight  of  emotion  she  put  upon  it. 

"  The  horiible  thought  that,  if  living;,  she  may  ac- 
cuse mu  of  her  misery,  perhaps  her  shame.  May  slie 
not  cry  out  from  the  depths  of  her  despair  :  '  Accursed 
be  my  unnatural  mother!'  Ah,  I  hear  that  friglilful 
curse  no  wringing  in  my  ears;  it  imisues  nie  in  my 
prayers,  and  torments  me  in  my  dreams.  L  hear  it 
alvvays,  always,"  and  her  voice  ended  in  such  a  wail 
of  misery  as  conld  come  only  fipm  a  lieart  wrung  to 
its  utmost  tension  by   despair.       ;""'  r^?.  v       .c  ^   •    ■' 

And  her  last  words  were  heard  by  one  other  whom 
in  her  wanderings  in  the  past  she  had  forgotten — her 
husband. 

The  Count  de  Linieres  had  waited  in  an  aiijoining 
room  until  he  ihoiiglit  his  wife  must  have  said  all  she 
wished  lo,  to  the  chevalier,  and  he  returned,  hoping 
tliat  by  addiiii;  sune  kind  advice  to  what  the  couuiess 
had  already  said,  he  might  be  able  so  to  influence  his 
nephew,  that  lie  would  accede  to  the  king's  wishes. 

The  heavy  carpel  had  deadened  the  sound  of  bis  foot- 
steps, and  if  lie  had  made  any  noise,  both  the  chevalier 
and  his  aunt  were  too  much  engrossed  to  have  heard 
It; 

As  he  heard  liis  wife's  last  words,  uttered  in  such  ac- 
cents of  despair,  he  started  in  alarm,  and  astouishmeiit 
rooted  liini  to  the  floor,  unable  to  move  or  speak. 

What  was  this  fearful  sorrow  of  which  he  Icnew 
nothing?  was  the  thought  that  Hashed  over  liim  in  an 
instant,  and  he  remained,  not  in  the  aitituJe  of  a  lis- 
tener; but  of  a  man  paralyzed  Avith  fear,  while,  ail 
unconscious  of  his  presence,  the  two  continued  their 
conversation.     "  • 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  I  H.VVE  S.WED  YOtJR  HOXOE." 

So  carried  away  with  his  argument,  was  the  Cheva- 
lier de  Vaudrey,  Itiat  tlie  words  came  from  his  lips  in 
an  irresistible  tide,  carrying  with  them  sorrow  and  pity 
to  tlie  woman  whose  past  life  was  thus  brought  before 
her,  and  shame  and  anger  to  the  man  who  had  tliu-i 
unconsciously  learned  of  the  one  dark  time  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  woman  he  loved 

"  Then  do  you,  who  have  sntTered  so  much,  who  suf- 
fer still,  counsel  me  to  obey  1 "  asked  the  chevalier  ea 
■rerly.  "  Would  yon  have  me  chain  my  life  loone  wo- 
man, whilemy  heait  is  filled  with  tlie  imageof  another, 
will  you  advise  me  to  do  this?'' 

Haid  words  were  these  for  a  husband  to  hear,  e's"- 
pecially  when  it  w;i8  the  first  intimation  he  had  of 
such  siifTering,  and  he  showed  in  the  deeply  furrowed 
brow,  the  clenched  hand,  and  the  white  tre'mblinglips 
how  deeply  the  blow  had  struck.   f\    ■* 

The  picture  De  Vaudrey  had  presented  to  his  aunt  ; 
the  thought  that  her  words  might  be  ihenieans  of  con- 
signing the  young  man  to  the  same  sad  late  which  had 
been  hers,  swept  away  all  the  barriers  of  opposition, 
and  she  resolved  tliat  if  it  laid  in  her  power,  the  sacri- 
fice should  not  be  made. 

"  X*,  no,  never!"  she  exclaimed  passionately. 
"  You  shall  not  mariv  other  than  the  woman  vou 
love." 

The  count  who  had  recovered  from  his  first  stupor 
of  surprise,  now  came  towaids  his  wife,  and  had  she 
not  been  in  such  extreme  agitation,  she  would  have 
seen  that  her  liusband  had  afjed  many  years  in  the 
few  moments  he  had  been  absent  from' tlie  room. 

When  the  countess  saw  him,  she  thought  not  of 
what  he  might  have  heard  ;  she  did  not  notice  hia  ap- 
pearance :  but,  so  deeply  was  her  woman's  heart 
moved  that  she  thought  only  of  her  nephew. 

"Ob,  Monsieur,  have  pity  on  him,"  she  almost  beg- 
ged as,  clasping  her   hands    before    her,   she  went    to 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


21 


"wanla  herhusbaud,  "do  not  ftk  Lim  to  stifle  the  cry 
iif  Ilia  couscience.  Ilia  heart  revolts  ugaiust  the  aacri- 
tice  you  ask.  Do  not  imitate  tliose  parents  wIiuko 
)iride  condenma  their  ciiildren  to  lives  otfalaehood  and 
despair." 

She  would  have  said  many  things  which  would  liave 
but  added  fuel  to  the  llaine  that  was  burning  in  the 
couut's  breast,  had  not  the  chevalier,  stepping  close  t^> 
lier  whispered  : 

••  Take  care  !  " 

'•Madaui!"  exclaimed  De  Linieres,  looking  at  lier 
iu  surprise.  ''To  whom  do  vou  refer?  Of  what  are 
you  speaking  when  you  use  the  woids,  pride,  falshood, 
despair.'' 

lier  husband's  cool  sarcastic  words,  uttered  in  a 
voice  which  chilled,  recalled  her  to  a  sense  of  what 
she  had  said,  and  a  deatliiy  feeling  came  over  her, 
causing  lier  to  seek  the  support  ot  the  chair. 

The  count  looked  at  her  lixcdly ,  and  she  saw  that 
some  answer  was  repaired  of  her.  In  a  voice  scarce- 
ly audible,  the  nnlia)>py  ■woman  faltered: 

'•  I  meant — I  s|K)ke  of " 

'Monsieur,"  said  the  chevalier,  anxious  toshicldtlie 
poor  lady,  ''the  words  of  the  counttss  are  bat  the 
echo  of  those  she  just  heard  me  utter.  They  are  the 
irrevocable  revolt  of  mv  heart  against  themairiage 
aud  the  suttering  you  would  impose  upon  me.' 

The  Count  de  Linieres  \va.s  far  from  being  satislied 
with  the  chevalier's  explanation.  Looking  at  his 
wife  in  a  manner  which  showed  that  he  did  not  be- 
lieve what  had  just  been  told  him,  he  asked  in  n  cold, 
St  itf  voice: 

•  Had  your  words  no  other  meaning.  Madam  ?" 

"No!  no!"  answered  the  countess,   conlusedly,  as  i 
though   she  knew  not   the  meaning  of  the  words  she 
uttered.     "I  am  agitated,  faint— you  see,  monsieur,  I 
am  ill." 

"That  is  evident,"  answered  the  count  in  a  voice 
which  had  in  its  tones  no  sympathy  or  emotion.  Then 
turning  to  his  nephew  he  ordered  rather  than  reqin^s- 
ted :  "Chevalier,  conduct  the  countess  to  lier  room, 
aud  return  immediately.     I  desire  to  speak  with  you." 

With  a  compassionate  look  at  his  aunt  the  Cheva- 
lier offered  her  his  arm  and  conducted  her  to  her  apart- 
ments. 

llardlv  had  he  left  the  room,  when  the  minister, 
sealing  "himself  at  his  table,  wrote  a  few  words  on  a 
paper,  and  after  haviyg  sealed  it,  rung  the  bell  sharp- 
ly. 

The  old  clerk  answered  the  summons,  and  to  liim 
the  count  hiinded  the  paper  saying  : 

•Take  thia  to  the  keeper  otthe  secret  records,  and 
return  with  what  he  gives  you." 

Like  a  well-made  automaton  the  clerk  took  the  pa- 
per, made  a  stiff  bow,  and  with  a  precise,  mechanical 
manner  left  tiie  room. 

Left  to  himself,  the  envied  Minister  of  Police  gave 
way  to  the  passion  wave  that  had  threatened  to  over- 
whelm him  in  the  presence  of  liis  wife. 

lie  paced  the  room  in  the  same  wild  way  tnat  his 
wife  had  done  but  a  few  moments  before,  and  watched 
impatiently   for  the  return  of  his  nephew. 

At  last  the  chevalier  returned,  and  the  look  upon 
Ilia  face,  showed  plainly  that  he  had  nerved  himself  for 
the  struggle  which  was  inevitable. 

"  Chevalier,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  going  up  to 
De  VaudreT  in  an  angry,  nervous  manner.  "  You 
can  readily  understand  that  jiropriety  and  considera- 
tions for  my  own  dignity,  induced  me  to  accept  the 
explanation  made  by  you  on  behalt  ol  the  countess." 

"Monsieur!''  interrupted  De  Yaudiey,  iu  an  angry 
tone. 

"You  also  understand  that  that  explanation  did  not 
satisfy  me,"  continued  the  count,  not  heeding  the  angry 
exclam.ilion. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  chevalier,  irt  a  cool,  irritating 
tone.     "  What  are  you  ]ilea.-c<i  to  t.iink  ?" 

"  I  think,  sir,"  answered  De  Linieres,  now  almost 
beside  himself  with  rage,  "  that  the  countess  wept 
not  for  you  ;  but  for  herself.     You  Bpoke   of  her  own 


griefs,  of  her  early  life,  which  is  shrouded  in  some 
dark  secret,  perhaps  a  guilty  one,  which  weighs  upon 
her  couscience,  and  ia  tlie  torment  ot  her  life  and  mine. 
Speak,  chevalier,   what  is  it  J" 

It  was  impossilile  for  De  Vaudrey  to  tell  how  much 
of^tiie  conversation  the  count  had  heaid,  and  what  re- 
ply to  make. 

lie  must  shield  his  aunt  from  all  Buspici(»n  of  wrong ; 
but   how  1 

There  was  now  but  one  way,  and  that  to  deny 
everyVhing  until  he  could  liuow  what  had  been  ovei- 
heard. 

"Monsieur  de  Linieres."  he  began,  in  an  angry 
tone,  and  ()urposely  dropping  the  tiile. 

"  I  command  you  to  S(ieak,"  interrupted  Ihe  count 
in  a  loud  voice. 

"  1  know  nothing,  monsieur,"  was  the  young mau'a 
brief  answer. 

"  Very  well,  sir."  was  the  angry  rejoinder,  "Y'ou 
choose  to  forget  all  you  owe  to  me.  Twice  to-day  have 
you  refused  obedience  to  mv  wishes,  nay,  to  ni}'  com- 
mands. Nevertheless,  I  will  know  the  secret  whicl 
you  refused  to  disclose." 

"  I  am  ignorant  of  the  secret  to  which  you  refer,'' 
said  De  Vaudrey  in  a  haughty  voice. 

The  count  was  about  to  make  an  angrj^  reply 
which  would  perhaps  have  opened  a  breach  in  then 
friendship  wliich  even  time  would  be  powerless  ic 
heal,  when  the  clerk  returned  with  the  anawer  t<. 
the  note. 

He  had  with  him  a  heavy  volume  bound  witi 
heavy  clamps  of  steel,  and  dark  with  age.  It  was  n 
book',  which  even  to  look  at,  would  convince  the  be. 
holder  that  within  its  heavy  covers  were  written  dark 
and  teriible  secrets.  A  book,  the  result  of  despotism, 
if  opened,  would  carry  miseiy  to  thousands,  aud  oue 
from  which  no  good  cuuld  come. 

As  noiselessly  as  he  had  entered,  the  automaton  of 
the  police  office  departe<l,  and  :igaiu  the  twomeu  were 
left  alone. 

"  If  you  do  not  already  know  the  seciei,"  said  the 
count,  "as  he  seated  himself  betbre  the  ponderous  vol- 
ume, and  began  turning  the  leaves  with  a  nervous 
haste,  "  we  will  learn  it  together." 

It  was  with  the  greatest  anxiety  that  De  Vaudrey 
saw  these  preparations,  the  meaning  of  w  hich  he  could 
not  imagine. 

Never  for  a  moment  did  he  think  of  any  such  records 
as  the  one  he  now  saw,  and  he  could  only  rack  his 
brain  in  vain  for  some  solution  to  his  uncle's  purpose. 
But  he  was  soon  enlightened. 

"  Here,  here,  in  the  archives  of  the  police  are  en- 
tered the  secrets  of  every  noble  family  in  France," 
said  the  count,  seeking  some  particular  page,  "  and 
here  will  I  learn  tlie  secret  of  Diane  de  Vaudrey, 
Countess  <le  Linieres." 

For  a  time  the  chevalier  was  stunned  by  his  uncle's 
words,  and  he  looked  on  unable  to  move  or  speak. 

"Why  that  would  be  shameful  !  it  would  be  infa- 
mous! "'he  exclaimed  at  hist,  going  towsuds  the  count 
as  if  to  pievent  his  carrying  his  purpose  into  effect. 

"  Here  it  is.''  said  De  Linieres,  eagerly,  as  he  found 
the  page  he  was  seeking,  and  not  giviiig  heed  to  the 
chevalier's  angry  exclan.ation.  "  House  of  De  Vau<iiey, 
ami  each  member  has  a  page.  Ah  !  Diane  Eleanor, 
dauuhter  of  the  Count  Francois  de  Vaudrey." 

The  minister  had  read  the  heatiing  of  the  page  in  an 
exultant  tone.  Now  would  he  wn-st  Ihe  secret 
which  his  wife  had  so  jealously  kept  from  him,  and  lie 
began  to  resid. 

"  Jlonsieur  von  must  not  read  !  "  cried  Dr.  Vaudrey,  | 
as  he  laid  hisliand  upon  the  o]ien  page  to  prevent  hia  / 
uncle  from  seeing  what  was  written. 

The  Count  looked  at  the  chevalier  in  surprise.  Never 
had  he  known  the  vonug  man  to  act  in  such  utter  dis- 
regard of  Ilia  authority"",  and  he  asked  in  :in  angry 
tone  : 

"  What  do  vou  nieati  ? " 

"I  mean,"  answered  fle  Vaudrey,  in  a  i  iiiging  voice, 
I  "  that  the  act  j  ou  are  about  to  commit   is   unworthy 


22 


THE  TWO  ORPITANS. 


of  you  ;  nnworthy  of  any  gentleman.  You  must  not, 
shall  not." 

A  deep  red  flush  surged  over  the  Count's  face,  and 
portended  an  outburst  of  rage. 

"  Who  will  prevent  it  ? "  he  asked  in  a  voice  hoarse 
with  passion. 

"  Your  own  honor,  which  will  revolt  against  such 
treason,"  said  tlie  young  man.  excitedly,  and  then  see- 
ing that  his  words  had  no  effect  upon  the  angry  man 
before  him,  and  forming  a  sudden  resolve,  he  added  : 
"  And,  sir,  if  your  own  honor  does  not  speak  loud 
enough,  I  svill." 

And  in  an  instant  he  had  grasped  the  page  which 
bore  the  fatal  secret,  tearing  it  from  the  botjk  with 
an  angry  wrench. 

M;'.stered  by  his  anger  and  astonishment,  the  count 
could  only  ask  in  a  hesitating  way: 

"  What  have  you  dom^  ? '' 

'•  I  warn  you,  sir,"  said  De  Vaudrey,  as  De  Linieres 
came   towards    him,  "that   you   can"  only  wrest   this 

faper  from  rue  with  my  life.'  You  shall  kill  me  before 
part  with  it.  Remember,  sir,  that  it  is  not  alone  her 
secret  I  have  saved  you  from  violating,  'tis  your  own 
dignity  and  self-respect.     I  have  saved  your  honor." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


SONS  OF  ONE   FATHKR. 


To  how  many  thousand  homeless,  shelterless  beings 
in  a  great  city  does  the  very  name  of  winter  send  a 
shudder  over  tlieir  attenuateci  frames,  and  catise  them 
to  think  with  fear  and  dread  of  the  sufferings  which 
must  be  theii-s  before  nature  shall  dispense  with  it's 
fleecy  mantle,  and  the  sun  cheer  them  with  it's  gener- 
ous waimth. 

Day  after  day  do  they  crouch  and  shiver  in  the 
cold  streets,  begging  for  the  pittance  which  is  with- 
held for  fear  they  may  be  imposters,  while  the  wealthv 
man,  who  would  not  hesitate  to  spend  thousands  for  his 
own  pleasure,  goes  on  his  way  congratulating  himself 
that  has  not  been  impose(i  on.  while  the  poor  wretch 
who  had  hoped  to  receive  a  few  pennies,  draws  his 
rags  close  around  him  and  wonders  how  many  liours 
will  elapse  ere  gaunt  starvation  claims  him  as'its  vic- 
tim. 

Should  that  poor  beggar,  starving  from  the  want  of 
the  few  crumbs  which  fall  unheeded  from  the  rich 
man's  table,  ask  himself,  and  not  without  reason, 
whether  there  is  one  who  watches  the  sparrow's  fall, 
the  godly  turns  away  with  horror  at  the  sentiment, 
and  rejoice  again  -Jiat  they  did  not  give  alms  to  one 
■who  refuses  to  believe,  or  questions  the  existence  of  a 
kind  God. 

Day  after  day  do  we  read,  and  in  a  moment  forget, 
of  some  one  who  was  fashioned  in  God's  own  likeness 
lying  dead  from  want. 

Dead  —from  the  want  of  a  crust  1 

Dead— in  the  cold  night  air  I 
Dead — and  under  the  oust, 

Without  ever  a  word  of  prayer ; 
In  the  heart  of  the  wealthiest  city, 

In  the  most  Christian  land. 
Without  ever  a  word  of  pity, 

Or  the  touchof  a  kindly  hand. 

Although  our  story  necessitates  our  giving  tlie  his- 
tory of  the  lives  of  some  of  these  persons  who  beg 
rather  than  work,  believe  that  such  cases  are  the  ex- 
ception rather  than  the  rule,  and  let  not  the  history  of 
the  Frochards  deter  any  one  from   a   charitable   deed. 

Had  the  reader  been  in  Paris  on  this  winter  day, 
and  gone  to  the  Church  St.  Sulpice,  they  would  have 
seen  the  poor  cripple  Pierre  gazing  around  in  the  hope 
of  seeing  Louise. 

The  day  was  bitterly  cold,  and  the  snow  which  has 
fallen  all  night  is  still  covering  the  cold  earth  with  its 
ehroud. 

Pierre,  clothed  in  rags,  limps   painfully  along,  stop- 


ping every  now  and  ffien  to  breathe  upon  his  purple 
Hi'gers,  or  swing  his  arms  to  infuse  some  warmth  in 
his  chilled  body. 

Offering  a  strong  contrast  to  him  is  the  well-dressed, 
well-fed  Jacques,  who  meets  him  with  a  look  of 
scorn. 

"  Have  the  women  not  come  yet  ?  "  asked  Jacques, 
in  the  tone  of  a  man  speaking  to  his  inferior. 

'•  No,  not  yet,  mother  and  Mademoiselle  Louise  are 
busy  elsewhere,  no  doubt,"  replied  Pierre,  while  he 
gazed  on  his  comfortably  clad  brother,  and  wondered 
why  they,  sons  of  one  father,  should  be  in  such  difler- 
ent  ciicumstances. 

"  They  ought  to  be  here,"  said  Jacques,  the  hand- 
some, impatiently.  "The  service  will  soon  be  over, 
and  they  will  miss  the  charitable  idiots." 

"  They  will  be  here  in  good  time."  said  the  cripple 
as  if  to  excuse  their  absence.  "  You  need  not  worry 
about  them." 

"  It  will  be  none  too  soon  if  they  come  now,"  was 
the  angry  exclamation,  as  the  loving  son  went  to  seek 
some  shelter  from  the  storm,  wliere  he  could  wait  un- 
til tlie  coming  of  his  mother,  from  whom  he  expected 
to  get  money  enough  to  pay  for  his  nighi's  carousal  at 
the  nearest  carbaret. 

Pierre  moved  away  as  though  expectiner  a  blow 
(which  was  not  uncommon)  from  his  bi other.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  up  his  mind  to  say  some- 
thing to  his  brother,  and,  judging  from  the  length  of 
time  it-  took  him,  he  did  not  expect  a  favorable  an- 
swer to  his  prayer. 

At  last  he  went  toward  Jacques,  and  in  a  slow,  hesi- 
tating way  said : 
"Jacques,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 
"  If  it  is  money  I  haven't  got  any,"  answered  the  el- 
der brother,  moving  awaj. 

"No,  no,"  answered  Pierre  quickly,  "it  is  not  mon- 
ey— but  look  here,  Jacqties,  when  yon  are  angry  with    , 
me,  curse  me,   beat  me  if  you  want  to,  but  do  not  call   / 
me  cripple- not — not  when  Louise  is  present."  y 

Jacques  looked  at  his  brother,  as  if  doubting  whe- 
ther he  had  heard  aiight.  and  then  as  he  saw  the  sup- 
plicating look  upon  the  deformed  boy's  face  he  broke 
out  into  a  coar?e  laugh. 

"  Indeed,"  he  sneered.  "  We  must  speak  to  monsieur 
respectfully;  take  oft"  our  hats.  I  suppose.  Why,  we 
will  dress  you  u])  in  silk  and  velvet.  You  would  like 
to  wear  gloves  and  cany  a  sword,  I  suppose." 

The  picture  which  his  coarse  taunts  had  called  np 
was  so  comical,  to  hi?  mind,  that  he  was  obliged  to 
stop  speaking  and  indulge  in  another  hearty  laugh. 

An  expression  of  pain  passed  over  Pierre's  face.  lie 
had  hoped  that  his  brother  would  grant  him  this  sim- 
ple favor,  and  his  sneering  words  cut  the  poor  fellow 
to  the  heart. 

"Jacques,"   he  said,   in   a   tone   of  sadness  and  re^ ' 
proach. 

"  So  it  hurts  your  feelings  to  be  called  cripple,  does 
it?"  continued  Jacques  in  a  voice  (hat  hurt  his  broth- 
er more  than  his  blows  would.  "  Well,  look  at  your- 
selt,  what  are  you  1 " 

"  I  am  a  poor,  deformed  cripple,''  answered  Pierre, 
as  he  brushed  away  the  rising  tear.  "  And  to  whom 
do  I  owe  it  ?  Who'  when  I  was  but  an  infant,  beat 
me  and  broke  and  twisted  my  limbs  because  I  refused 
to  steal  a  coat  for  him  ? '" 

"  You  lie !  it  was  a  cloak,"  niterrupted  Jacques, 
fiercely. 

"That  is  always  vour  way,"  continued  the  cripple, 
"  to  make  some  one  else  steal  for  you.  That  was  what 
forced  poor  Marianne " 

"Marianne!"  exclaimed  Jacqnes,  as  he  raised  his 
hand  to  strike  the  one  who  thus  brought  up  the  past. 
"  Don't  you  dare  to  mention  that  ungrateful  fool's  name 
to  me  again.  She  was  a  heartless  jade,  who  would 
rather  go  to  prison  thair  give  me  her  money,"  aud 
Jacques  turned  away  with  atj  expression  of  disgust 
at  the  idea  ot  such  ingratitude. 

"  She  saved  you  from  punishment,"  said  Pierre,  who 


TllK  TWO  ORPHANS. 


23 


wa«  erer  ready  to  plead  the  canae  of  the  unfortu- 
nate. 

"That  is  enough,''  cried  the  ruffian,  stamping  his 
foot  angrily.  "  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  more 
about  her.  I  have  found  another,  who  is  Uetter  look- 
ing and  more  useful.     As  for  you.  as   you   don't   want 

to  be  called  cripple  any  more " 

And  Jacques  lienitated  foi  a  moment,  aa  if  he  were 
searcliing    his     brain    for   some   name,   wliile    Pierre, 
thinking  that  his  l>rother  had  relented,  and  was   about 
to  answer  his  praver,  exclaimed  anxiously  : 
"Well?" 

"I'll  re-christen  you,  Cupid." 

Again  a  look  of  intense  pain  passed  over  Pierre's 
face  as  his  brother's  laugh  rang  out  loud  and  shrill. 

"  Di>  as  you  like,''  he  said,  wearily,  as  if  resigning 
himself  to  all  the  insults  his  brother  might  see  fit  to 
heap  upon  him. 

"Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  said  Jacques  con- 
temptuously, "it  is  only  when  Louise  is  about  that 
Ton  object  to  be  called  cripple  ;  perhaps — "  and  as  if 
h«  could  no  longer  control  himself,  he  burst  out  into 
his  fiendish  laugh  again,  at  some  thought  which  had 
entereil  his  wicked  brain.  Then  chuckling  to  himself 
he  said,  shaking  his  head  in  a  mocking  way  :  ■•  Ah, 
that  would  be  too  good." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1 ''  asked  Pierre,  not  under- 
standing the  reason  for  his  brother's  mirth. 

"  You  are  not  so  stupid  after  all,"  laughed  Jacques. 
"  She  is  blind  and  does  not  know  the  ditiert^uce  be- 
tween a  handsome  man  like  me.  and  a  miserable  abor- 
tion like  you,"  and  again  his  mirth  resulted  in  laugh- 
ter, while  he  exclaimed:  "  You're  in  love — iu  love 
with  a  bhnd  girl." 

"I?"  said  Pierre  in  surprise,  as  if  hardly  nnder- 
atanding  what  his  brother  had  said,  and  at  the  same 
time  looking  down  upon  his  mis-shapen  form.  "I? 
In  love  1  ■' 

"  Why,  then,  are  you  ashamed  of  being  called  crip- 
ple before  her  ?  Afraid  she'll  find  out  your  beautiful 
shape,  eh  1  " 

"  Yes — yes,  it  is  so,''  said  the  poor  boy,  as  if  the 
words  came  from  him  involuntarily.  ••  I  want  to 
think  there  is  one  in  the  world  who  does  not  regard 
me  with  disgust.  If  she  thought — I  was  like  others, 
she  might  have  some  feelingof  friendship  for  me.  But 
in  love — in  love  with,  she  who  is  beautiful  enough, 
good  enougn  to  be  an  angel." 

And  there  was  upon  Pierre's  face,  as  he  spoke  of 
the  blind  girl,  a  light  which  is  rarely  seen,  and  then 
only  when  it  is  lit  by  a  soul  pure  and  noble. 

Jacques  looked  upon  his  lirother  iu  surprise.  He 
saw  iu  that  pale  face  .--omething  which  he  had  never 
seen  before,  and  could  hardly  repress  his  astonish- 
ment. 

"  How  tlie    devil  did  you  finil  that  all  out  7      I  don't 

know  or  care    anything  about  her  goodness,"    he  said 

*n.>r,'*.sliort  pause.     "Bosh,   for  all    that — and  as   to 

.^•r  (>ea'uty,  I  kuow  that  her  eves  are  more  use  to    her 

iiioiv,  than  if  she  could  see  svitli  them.'" 

I     '■  Yes,  yes,  she  is  blind,"    said    Pierre   sadly,    '   but 
fier  face  is  so    sweet  that  it  would    move  a   stoiie    to 
)ity.  and  her  tfreat  beautiful  eyes  seem  to  look  at    me 
10  truthfully  that  I  almost  fear  she  can  see  me." 

"There,  there,"  said  Jacques,  who  had  not  heanl 
;he  latter  part  of  the  sentence,  but  who  had  started 
©ward  some  drinking  saloon  where  he  would  find 
nore  congenial  companions  ;  "  stop  your  muttering,  and 
»me  along  with  me.     I  want  yoii,  Cupid;  come." 

For  once  Pierre  determined  to  resist  his  brother's 
yrauny. 

"  I  will  not  go,"  he  said,  iu  a  voice  he  vainly  en- 
leavored   to  make  sound  firm. 

Eh  !  "  cried  Jacques,  in  ama/.ement.  "  What's 
(lis  1  rebellion,  eh  ?  now  do  as  I  order  you,  or  look 
ut  for  a  beating,"  and  the  brute  in  human  shape  went 
>ward8  the  cripple  with  hand  uplifted  to  strike. 

Jnst  at  this  moment  the  sad,  sweet  voice  of  a  young 
irl  was  heard  not  far  ofT,    and  Pierre  started  with  de- 


liirht.  He  recognized  the  tones  of  that,  to  him,  angel 
song,  and  his  purpose  was  changed  immediately. 

Like  a  voice  from  heaven  did  the  i.oies,  welling 
oyer  with  despair,  speak  to  the  deformed  lad.  filling 
his  heart  with  peace  and  love. 

"Jacques."  he  said,  softly,  "you  are  older  than 
me,  you're  straiu'ht  and  strong,  and  I  must  submit  to 
you  ;  but  when  I  see  the  use  you  make  of  your 
strength,  I  am  satisfied  with  my  ugly  shape  and'mis- 
erable  weakness." 

And  as  he  finished  speaking,  he  turned  iu  the  direc- 
tion from  which  the  sound  procee<led.  aud  stood  in 
anxious  expectancy,  awaiting  the  approach  of  the 
blind  girl,  who  had  so  entirely  changed  the  course  of 
his  life. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE   POWKR   OF  THE   LAW. 


The  minister  of  police  was  so  astounded  by  the  sud- 
den action  on  the  part  of  his  iipphew,  that  He  was  for 
a  fev;  moments  unable  to  speak. 

His  anger  struL'irled  for  the  mnstery  with  his  sur- 
prise, and  as  De  Vaudrey  saw  the  deep  red  Hush  man- 
ilinij;  his  uncle's  face,  he  well  knew  what  it  portended. 
He  held  the  leaf  upon  which  was  written  the  secret  of 
the  countess  ;  but  how  long  he  might  be  permitted  to 
retain  it  was  still  an  open  question. 

De  Vauiirey  knew  that  the  sount  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  call  upon  the  police,  and  order  them  to  wrest 
the  paper  from  him,  and  he  deemed  it  the  wisest  course 
to  leave  the  room  while  his  uncle  was  yet  stupefied,  aa 
it  were,  at  his  conduct. 

With  alow  bow  to  tbe  now  thoroughly  angry  count, 
the  chevalier  left  the  room  and  proceeded  directly  to 
the  apartments  of  the  countess. 

Meeting  a  servant  as  he  went  through  the  lofty  halls 
he  directed  him  to  wait  upon  the  Count  de  Liiiieres  ; 
iov  Do  Vauiirey  had  serious  fears  that  upon  one  of  his 
uncle's  teuiperament.  the  passion  which  had  control  of 
him,  miL'ht  prove  fatal. 

His  fir.st  movement  as  lie  entered  the  ante-chamber 
of  his  aunt's  apartments,  was  to  commit  the  paper  he 
had  torn  from  the  book  to  the  Hames,  and  not  until  he 
had  seen  the  last  smouldering  ve.stige  of  it  reduced  to 
ashes,  did  he  seek  the  presence  of  the  countess. 

De  Vaudrey  treated  the  interview  with  the  count, 
in  his  conversation  with  the  countess,  as  nothing  seri- 
ous, and  assured  her,  without  relating  any  of  the  par- 
ticulars, that  her  secret  was  safe. 

Indeed,  so  moved  was  the  countess,  by  the  clieva- 
lier's  argument  iu  favor  of  the  girl  whom  he  loved, 
that,  terrible  as  she  believed  ivor.ld  be  the  conse- 
quences if  her  secret  was  made  known  to  her  husband, 
she  had  hardiv  thony.ht  of  what  she  had  said,  and  con- 
sequently believeil  that  the  count's  order  for  his  ne- 
phew to  return  to  him  after  esciu'ting  his  aunt  to  her 
apartments,  referred  only  to  the  question  of  the  mar- 
riage which  the  king  desired. 

It  was  an  exceedingly  simple  task  for  the  chevalier 
now  to  induce  the  Countess  de  Linieres  to  call  upon 
the  young  girl  whom  he  loved,  and  afier  giving  her 
Henriette's  address,  aud  receiving  her  assurance  that 
she  would  visit  the  young  girl  <ui  her  return  from 
church,  the  chevalier  took  his  departure,  leaving  the 
countess  to  wander  back  in  the  dark  apd  terrible  mazes 
of  the  past,  while  he  should  seek  Henriette's  society, 
and  be  happy  as  he  l)a8ked  in  the  sun-light  of  the 
loved  one's  smiles. 

The  servant  whom  De  Vaudrey  had  sent  to  the  as- 
sistance of  the  count,  found  that  gentleman  in  the 
greatest  state  of  excitement  consequent  upon  th?  be- 
havior of  his  nepfiew. 

"  Send  the  chief  clerk  tome,"  said  De  Linieres  to 
the  servant. 

When  the  clerk  entered,  he  found  his  chief  in  a  more 
quiet  frame  of  mind  ;  but  from  his  manner  of  speaking 


THE  TWO  OKPHAXS. 


2r> 


tlie  evident  BuflFering  of  the  beautiful   girl,  ha  drew  a  '  lice,  Bhe  would  never  go  back  to  the  old   boathouseou 
coiu  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  into  the  girl's  uiiwil-      '     '      '       -  ■     -  • 
ling  palm,  and  passed  on  his  way. 

Like  a  hawk  pouncing  upon  a  dove  did  Mother 
Frochard  grasp  the  hand  which  held  the  money,  and 
in  an  instant  it  was  transferred  to  her  capacious  poc- 
ket. 

"There,  what  did  I  tell  von?"  she  said,  triumphan- 
tly. 

Then  giving  the  poor  girl  a  hard  shake  she  said  : 

"  Go  on  crying."' 

As  she  saw  others  approaching  she  raised  her  mono- 
tonous cry  : 

"Charity,  good  people,  if  you  please." 

Among  the  people  who  were  coming  toward  the 
cliurch  was  the  gool-natured  doctor  of  the  hospital  of 
Si.  Louis  and  La  Salpetriere,  and  to  him  did  Mother 
Frochard  direct  her  cries  for  charity. 

"  Please,  my  good  sir,"  said  the  old  woman,  going 
towards  him,  and  holding  out  her  dirty  hand. 

Pierre  and  Jacques  had  moved  away  as  soon  as  the 
thureh-goers  came  up.  and  now  Mother  Frochard, 
her  charge,  and  the  doctor  were  the  only  ones  in  the 
Square. 

The  physician  paid  no  attention  to  the  old  woman's 
entreaty,  and  was  walking  away;  but  La  Prochaid 
was  not  to  be  shaken  off  so  easily.  She  stepped  in 
front  of  him,  and  cried  in  a  whining  tone: 

'' Charity,  if  yon  please." 

"Oil  clear  out !"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  whose  pa- 
tience was  exhausted. 

"  Pity  for  a  poor  blind  child,  if  you  please,  charity," 
persisted  the  old  woman. 


the  banks  of  tlie  Seine. 

"  Well  then,"  she  said,  as  she  rudely  pushed  Louis© 
towards  him,  "see  for  yourself  if  she  is  not  blind," 
and  then  unable  to  restrain  her  anger,  she  muttered  to 
herself:  "Curse  him,  I  know  him;  he  is  that  whin- 
ing doctor  at  the  hospital." 

And  as  soon  as  she  had  thus  given  vent  to  some  of 
her  antrer,  she  stood  by  the  side  of  Louise  to  prevent 
her  telling  the  doctor'anything  that  might  reflect  on 
her  tormentor's  motlierly  care. 

"  Ah  !  sir,  if  you  are  a  doctor,"  began  Louise  eager- 
ly :  but  before  she  had  concluded  the  sentence,    Moth- 
er Frochard  gave  her  such  a  cruel    pinch   on  the   arm/ 
that  .she  did  not  dare  to  say  anything  more. 

"Well  do  you  see?  "  asked  the  old  woman  shrilly, 
after  the  doctor  had  examined  the  poor  girl's  eyes  for 
a  moment.     "She's  blind,  ain't  she?  " 

"  You  have  not  always  been  blind,  my  child,  have 
you?"  asked  the  doctor,  not  heeding  the  old  woman's 
question. 

"  No,  monsieur,"  said  Louise  timidly,  as  she  invol- 
untarily shrank  from  the  blow,  or  pinch  which  she 
expected  to  receive.  "  I  was  fourteen  years  old  when 
this  misfortune  befell  me." 

"  Fourteen  ?"  exclaimed  the  doctor  in  astonishment, 
'■  and  you  have  had  no  treatment  1  " 

"  Monsieur — "  began  Louise  eagerly,  forgetting  for 
the  moment  the  old  witch  that  stood  beside  her. 

Mother  Frochard  saw  in  a  moment  that  Louise  was 
about  to  speak  of  her  past  life,  and  she  adroitly  admin- 
istered a  blow  in  the  poor  girl's  side,  unperceived  by 
the  doctor,  that  prevented  her  from  speaking,  and  be 


As   the   old    woman    spoke    of  the    misfortune    of  i  fore  the  interruption  could  be  noticed,  she  said   quick- 


Louise,  the  doctor's  professional  feelings,  if  not  his 
charitable  ones,  were  aroused,  and  he  turned  quickly 
aiouiid,  askinj;: 

"Blind!  W^ho  ? "  ami  seeing  Louise  for  the  first 
time,  pointed  to  her  as  he  .isked  : 

"Is  this  young  girl    blind?" 

"Alas!  yes,  my  good  sir,  have  pity  on  her,"  whin- 
ed .Mother  Frochard  ni  her  professional  voice,  as  she 
carefully  kept  Louise  behind  her. 

"  Poor  unhappy  child,"  said  the  good  doctor  sym- 
pathetically. "  Let  me  look  at  your  eyes,"  and  as  he 
spoke  he  vvent  towards  tbe  poor  orphan. 

It  was  charity  that  La  Frochard  wanted,  and  not 
sympathy  or  professional  services,  therefore  she  did 
not  wish  the  doctor  to  see  the  poor  girl,  for  fear  tliat 
she  might  be  taken  to  the  liospital,  and  hereby  de- 
prive the  worthy  Frochards  of  the  amount  she 'could 
earn  by  begging. 

The  old  woman  sprang  towards  Louise,  and  rough- 
ly pushed  her  away,  at  the  same  time  confronting  the 
^^I'/Mcinn  with  the  question. 
I  i      '.  Why  do  you  want  to  set;  her?"    she  uttered  in  an 
^  angry  tone. 

"  Come  here,  my  child,"'  continued  the  doctor,  not 
heeding  the  old  woman's  interference  or  question. 
"  L»t  ine  see  your  eyes.     1  am  a  doctor." 

"A  doctor!"  exclaimed  Louise  joyfully,  as  she 
Btai-led  to  go  towards  the  kind  man  who  had  thus  in- 
terested himself  in  her  fate. 

But  Mother  Frochard  caught  the  poor  girl  by  the 
arm.  and  with  a  vicious  thump  with  her  elb()W  at 
L-iuise's  side,  and  a  cruel  pinch  of  her  arm,  prevented 
her  from  speaking. 

"  Come  along,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  of  rage,  so 
low  as  not  to  be  heard  by  the  doctor,  and  then  in  a 
shrill  voice  which  she  tried  to  tnaUe  sound  resit,'iied, 
she  said  to  the  physician.  "They  can't  be  cured  ;  it 
is  no  use,"  and  clutching  Louise  more  firmly  by  the 
arm,  and  almost  shaking  her  in  her  wrath  she  said: 
"  Come  along,  my  dear." 

"  But  I  insist,"  said  the  doctor  firmly.  "You  are 
im|>ostors,  and  I  will  hnnd  you  over  to  the  police."' 

Tli'»  old  hag's  eyes    glared   fiercely   lor  a   moment; 


ly: 

"  We  are  so  poor,  good  doctor,  we  have  not  the  mo- 
ney to " 

"  Oh,  monsieur,"  interrupted  Louise,  who  would  not 
thus  be  deprived  of  one  chance  to  regain  her  sight,  and 
who  resolved  to  speak,  regardless  of  what  tlie  old  wo- 
man might  say  or  do.  "  For  mercy's  sake,  if  you  have 
any  pity,  speak  to  me,  tell  me  is  there  any  hope  for 
me  ;  oh,  if  you  knew  from  what  misery  your  words 
might  save  me." 

Again  did  the  old  woman  give  the  poor  orphan  a 
cruel  blow,  and  hastened  to  speak  lest  Louise  should 
try  to  say  more. 

"  Yes,  yes  indeed,"  she  said  in  her  whining  voice, 
as  she  tried  to  push  Louise  away,  "  there  cait't  be  any 
worse  misery  tlian  to  be  blind.  If  she  could  see,  she 
could  work,  and  would  not  have  to  beg.  Isn't  that  so, 
my  dear  '"  and  again  the  cruel  hand  reminded  Louise 
how  she  must  speak. 

"Yes,  yes,''  said  the  poor  jfirl  eagerly.  "  I  would 
work — I  would — I — I  woiiM." 

She  was  about  to  say  that  she  would  then  find  her 
sister;  but  Mother  Frochard,  ever  on  the  alert,  under- 
stood what  the  poor  orphan  would  8;iy,  and  a  wicked 
grasp  of  the  arm  caused  her  to  change  her  words. 

"Calm  yourself,  my  child,  calm  yourself,"  said  the 
good  doctor,  deeply  moved  by  the  suffering  which  was 
evident  from  the  young  ti\tl'a  words.  Then  beckoning 
to  the  old  woman  he  moved  a  few  steps  away  from 
Louise,  and  said : 
"  Come  here." 

The  old  woman  pushed  Louise  some   distance   fiom 
her,  so  that  she  could  not,    by  any    means,  hear  what 
was  said,  and  then  in  a  servile  voice  asked,  as  slie  went 
towards  the  physician  : 
"  What  is  it,  ioclor  ?" 

"Listen,"  said  the  medical  man,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  You  must  not  excite  her,  and  you  must  not  tell  her 
suddenly  what  I  hope  ;  but  bring  liei  to  me  at  the  hos- 
pital St.'  Louis." 

"Yes,  yes,"  saidthe  old  woman  quickly;  but  at  th» 
same  time  with  an  ugly  scowl  upon  her  hard  face.  "I 
know,  I  have  been  there  often." 

1  thought  I  recognized  vou,"  said    the    doctor,    re- 


but »iie  shw  that 'it    was   useless   for  her  to  resist,  fer    garding  her  thoughtfully.  '' Let  me  see,  you  are  called 
should  Louise  once  get  under  the  protection  of  the  po-  i  Mother '" 


26 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


''  Widow  Procharil,  moDsieur,"  said  the  old  woman, 
drawing  herself  up  indignantly. 

'■Yes,  I  remember,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  smile 
upon  liis  face  at  the  old  hag's  assumption  of  dignity. 
'  Well,  when  she  is  calmer,  vou  can  tell  her  gently 
that  I  iliink  theie  is  hope  for  her,  and  then,  when  she 
is  more  accustomed  to  the  idea,  hring  her  to  me." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will,"  replied  the  old  wretch,  with  a 
-wicked  smile  upon  her  face.  "I'll  tell  her  gently. 
Trust  me,  doctor,  for  that.      You  can  depend  on  me. ' 

Had  the  good  man  known  how  gently  the  old  wo- 
man would  have  told  the  poor  girl  of  the  good  news, 
he  would  not  have  left  her  as  he  did  ;  but  he  believed 
Louise  to  be  Frochard's  daughter,  and  like  many  otli- 
ers,  was  deceived  by  the  old  hag's  whining  voice. 

"Here,  my  poor"  child,"  said  the  doctor,  going  to- 
wards Louise,  and  giving  her  some  money,  while  to 
the  poor  girl  the  words  which  followed  was  of  more 
value  than  all  the  money  he  could  have  given  her. 
"  Courage,"  he  added  in  a  pleasant  voice,  "  courage, 
my  dear,  I  will  see  jou  again." 

These  words  carried  hope  with  them  to  the  afflicted 
girl's  lieart,  and  in  the  excess  of  her  joy  she  was  unable 
to  speak,  but  stood  trembling  with  excitement. 

As  the  doctor  walked  away  mother  Frochard  called 
after  him  in  her  shrill,  cracked  voice  : 

"  May  Heaveu  bless  you,  good  doctor.  Heaven  bless 
you." 

And  as  the  physician  turned  the  corner,  and  was  out 
of  hearing,  her  blessings  tarncid  to  curses,  and  in  a 
voice  full  of  hate  and  anger,  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Curses  on  you  for  a  meddling  old  fool." 

"What  did  he  tell  you,  madam  ]  "  asked  Louise,  ea- 
gerly, as  she  went  towards  the  old  woman,  expecting 
to  hear  the  words'of  encouragement  which  the  uocior's 
kind  words  assured  her  she  would  hear. 

"He  said  it  was  not  worth  the  trouble,"  said  the  old 
hag,  in  a  hard  voice.     "There  is  no  hope  for  you." 

These  cruel  words  struck  Louise  with  harder  force 
than  a  blow  would  have  done,  and  she  staggered 
against  one  of  the  buildings  for  support. 

"  Alas,  alas !  what  can  I  do?"  she  wailed,  and 
there  was  a  depth  of  de.spair  in  her  cry,  such  as  seldom 
comes  from  hu-iian  lips.     "  What  will  become  of  me  V 

The  encounter  with  the  doctor  was  in  the  highest 
degree  dangerous  to  the  old  woman's  plans,  and  she 
resolved  that  it  should  not  occur  again. 

"If  I  bring  her  here  every  day,  he  will  see  her 
again,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  No,  no  ;  that  will  not 
do." 

For  a  few  moments  she  remained  in  deep  thoutrht, 
and  then  a  smile  of  triumph  came  over  her  face  which 
w;is  fiendish,  aud  she  said  to  Louise  : 

"  Look  here,  child,  I  am  a  goo'^  woman.  You  have 
been  complaining  that  I  always  take  you  to  the  same 
places.  Now,  to-morrow  we  will  look  for  your  sis- 
ter in  some  other  part  of  the  city." 

"  Ah,  madam,"  said  Louise,  gratefully,  "  I  thank 
you.  I  have  now  but  one  hope  left,  to  fiiid  my  dear 
sister,  my  dear  Henriette." 

Now  that  all  hope  of  ever  recovering  her  sight, 
which  had  been  so  suddenly  raised,  and  so  rudely  dash- 
ed, was  taken  from  her,  her  soul  cried  out  more  anx- 
iously than  ever,  if  such  a  thing  could  be  possible,  for 
the  sister  who  had  been  so  cruelly  taken  from  her. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


SYMPATHY   AND  LOVE. 


Pierre  and  Jacques  returned  as  soon  as  the  doctor 
had  gone  away,  and  Jacques,  who  had  waited  long  for 
eome  money,  said : 

"  Well,  mother,  how  is  business  1" 

This  question  reminded  the  old  woman  of  the  money 
the  doctor  had  given  Louise,  and  she  said  quickly,  as 
she  opened  the  poor  girl's  hand  with  no  gentle  force. 

"  Yes,  yes,  what  did  the  doctor  give  you  ?  " 


"That,  madam,"  replied  Louise,  as  the  old  hag  took 
the  money. 

'J'his  was  Jacques' 8  opportuniiy  ,  and  he  was  not  a 
man  to  let  such  a  chance  miss  him. 

Before  his  mother  could  tell  of  what  amount  the  coin 
was,  he  had  taken  it  from  her,  aud  after  examining  it, 
exclaimed : 

"  Gold  1  What  thieves  tliese  doctors  mnst  be,  it's  a 
gold  piece,"  and  he  coolly  put  it  into  his  pocket,  aud 
was  about  to  go  away  when  liis  mother  cried  out: 

■But  that  is  mine." 

"  Eh  1.  never  mind,  mother,"  he  said  as  he  put  his 
arm  arouud  his  mother's  neck,  and  forced  her  to  go 
with  him.     "  I'll  treat  you  to  some  brandy." 

"  With  my  own  money,  brigand,"  said  the  old  wo- 
man, comjletely  molline'd  by  her  son's  small  show  oi 
attection,  and  perfectly  willing  to  accompany  her  vil- 
lain of  a  son  oil  his  orgy. 

But  a  thought  of  business  came  over  her  just  as  she 
was  leaving,  and  she  turned  long  enough  to  .say  in  her 
shrill,  angry  voice  to  Louise: 

"Look  you,  they  will  be  coming  out  of  the  chuich 
soon  ;  now  sing  out  loud.  No  laziness,  mind  what  I 
say,  for  I'll  be  watching  you." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  Louise  meekly. 

"  Pierre  !  Where  is  that  lazy  stamp  1 '"  cried  the  old 
woman,  who  had  not  seen  the  poor  cripple  who  stood 
in  the  angle  of  one  of  the  buildings,  until  tier  voice 
caused  him  to  come  forward.  "Here,  put  her  on  the 
church  steps." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  said  Pierre,  going  towards  the  blind 
girl,  thankful  of  an  opportuuity  even  of  touching  the 
innocent  girl's  hand. 

But  Jacques  Was  opposed  to  his  doing  even  that,  for 
as  Pierre  was  about  to  take  hold  of  Louise's  wasted 
hand,  he  pushed  him  rudely  aside,  and  in  a  rough  voice 
said  : 

"Never  mind,  Cupid,  you  need  not  trouble  yourself. 
I'll  take  care  of  her." 

Louise  shrank  from  his  touch  ;  but  he  never  let 
such  trifles  as  that  deter  him,  in  fact  he  preferred  thut 
even  the  sound  of  his  voice  should  give  piiin,  and  tak- 
ing her  rudely  by  the  hand,  he  led  her  to  the  steps  of 
the  church,  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at 
her. 

■•  Yea,  yes,"  he  said  half  1o  himself,  "  she  is  devilish 
good-looking,  considering  she's  blind." 

"  You  stay  here,  and  see  that  no  one  speaks  to  her," 
said  the  old  woman  to  Pierre. 

"  I  will  watch  her,''  replied  the  cripple,  with  a  look 
of  devotion  to  the  poor  girl  such  as  one  might  give  to 
the  picture  of  the  Madonna. 

"There's  no  danger  that  he'll  let  any  one  run  away 
with  her:  is  tlifere,  Cupid,"     laughed  Jacques,   a?   ho     j 
started  off  with  his  mother.  '"^'Tl 

For  some  time  after  mother  and  son  had  gone  awa      ^ 
Pierre  stood   gazing  at    the  wasted  form   of  the  poo'r 
blind  Kii'l,  while  the  great  tears  of  sympathy  and  love       | 
fill<-d  his  eyes,  and  trickled  down  his  distorted  face. 

Seated  upon  the  cold  stone  steps  which  were  cover- 
ed with  snow  and  ice,  and  with  scanty  clothing  to 
shield  her  from  the  piercing  wind  and  falling  snow, 
the  poor  girl  shook  with  the  cold  like  one  in  an  ague 
tit. 

It  was  a  sight  which  cut  the  honest,  tender  Pierre  to 
the  heart,  but  yet  he  had  nothing  with  which  to  cover 
her,  save  the  ragged  coat  which  he  wore,  and  the  loss 
of  that  would  leave  his  body  almost  naked. 

Only  for  a  moment  did  he  hesitate,  and  then  draw- 
ing off  the  only  garment  in  which  there  was  any 
warmth,  he  went  towards  Louise. 

"  I  am  so  very  cold,"  shivered  the  poor  girl,  as  she 
tried  to  wrap  the  mi.serable  sack  she  wore,  more  close- 
ly iiround  her. 

Pierre  covered  her  with  the  coat,  and  stood  exposed 
to  all  the  merciless  fury  of  the  storm,  thankful  that  he 
was  able  to  do  her  this  service. 

"Is  that  you,  Pierro,"  asked  the  young  girl,  as  she 
felt  Pierre  covering  her  with  the  garment. 

"Yes,  mamzelle,"  replied  the  cripple,  breathing  upon 


i 


i 


,.m 


\  \ 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


27 


Bfs  fingers  which  were  rupidly  becoming  purple   from 
the  iu lease  cold. 

''  Yes,  it  must  be  you.  Pierre  ;  vou  are  the  only  one 
who  is  kind  to  me.  But  this  i.s  your  co.it,"  she  said  as 
she  felt,  the  garmeut.  '•  What  will  you  do  without 
it,  Pierre?  " 

"Oil,  I'll  do  verv  well  indeed,  niamzelle.''  replie(' 
Pierre,  vainly  trying  to  keep  his  teeth  from  chattering, 
and  at  thesame  tnne  telling  a  falseliood  in  order  to  in- 
duce the  young  girl  to  keep  the  coat.  "  1  have  a  jack- 
et, and  my  woolen  waistcoat,  and  my — oh,  that  is  only 
my  overcotit.  Besides,  1  am  ver^'  warm,  very  warm, 
indeed  I "' 

Even  while  the  honest  fellow  was  speaking,  he  was 
pbliged  to  move  around  to  keep  tlie  blood  in  circulation 
lie  was  so  rs.pidly  becoming  chilled. 

"  Pierre,"  said  Louise  earnestly,  "  without  vou  I 
slioiild  die,  without  your  help  I  shouldn't  have  strength 
to  endure  my    sufferings." 

Again  th'j  toars  came  into  the  cripple's  eyes;  but 
t!iistiiu-  they  were  tears  of  joy  as  well  as  sorrow. 

He  was  happy  at  the  words"  which  Louise  uttered, 
fof  they  showed  him  tiiat  she  thought  of  liim  depended 
upon  him,  and  his  heart,  which  was  so  hungry  for  the 
love  of  some  om,  rejoined. 

"I  know  they  make  you  wretched,"  he  said  sadly. 
*•  My  heart  bleeds  at  the  sufferings  they  inrlict  on  you  ; 
/>ut  I  am  helpless,  lieljdess,  lean  do  notlnng,  nothing." 
Th-.^se  despairing  words  which  thethougla  of  his  own 
weakness  wrung  from  Pierre's  lieart,  touched  Louise 
ieeply.  and  she  tried   to  comfort  him. 

'•Is  your  sympathy,  your  compassion,  nothing?"  she 
Asked  in  a  tender  voice,  and  as  she  took  hold  of  the 
coat  he  had  placed  upon  her  shoulders,  she  added: 
"Even  now  I  have  to  thank  you.  Yes,  vour  pity,  your 
kindness  sustains  me.'' 

As  she  said  this,  she  arose  and  took  Pierre's  hand  in 
her  own. 

In  doing  so,  she  touched  his  arm  which  was  partly 
•overed  by  the  thin  lagged  shirt,  and  in  au  instant  she 
Huderstood  what  he   had  douf. 

"Oh,  how  seKish  I  am  !  "  as  she  took  the  coat  from 
off  her  shoulders. 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Pierre,  trying  to  prevent  her  from 
doiuir  so,  and  refusing  to  take  it  back." 

"Pierre,  do  take  it,"  she  almost  begged  him,  "my 
de.ir  Pierre,  for  my  sake  take  it." 

Pierre  could  not  resist  this  entreaty,  and  very  re- 
lu.-tiurly  did  h  :  again  put  the  coat  on". 

"  I  am  not  cold  now."  she  said,  struggling  not  to  be- 
tray the  intense  suffering  winch  was  hers,  as  tlie  chill- 
ing snow  again  fell  upon  her  almost  unprotected 
shoulders,  "and  if  I  were,  am  I  not  accustomed  tosuf 
fering?  did  they  not  leave  me  in  the  cold  garret  to 
starve.bucause  t  refused  to  beg  ?  But.  alas  !  I  must 
,  bejj,  or  die  and  l.ise  all  my  liope  of  seeing  my  dear  sis 
^yter  Ilenrietle  once  more.'' 

■^  Tlie  wail  of  sorrow   which    accompanied  the  words 

80  moved  Pierre,  that  for   a  moment  he  was  unable  to 
»peak. 

"flave  you  never  thought  of  escai)ing  ?"  he  said  at 
last.  "  I  can  assist  you.  Let  me  inform  the  police. 
And  they  will  protect  vou." 

"No.  uo,"  replied  Louise,  quicklv,  "you  must  not. 
I  have  thought  U  ,  but  that  would' deprive  me  of  the 
only  chance  of  finding  my  sister.  Tliey  would  shut 
me  up  ill  an  asylum  for  tlTe  blind,  and  then  1  should  be 
lo.-?t  to  her  forever.  Besides,  I  have  an  idea  which 
Bustams  me  and  is  my  last  iiope.  If  they  take  me 
from  one  quarter  of  the  city  to  the  other,  peiiians  some 
day  my  voice  in.iy  reach  my  sister's   ears." 

I  will  sing  flio  same  sontia  we  learned  tOKetiier  anrl 
when  I  hnish  I  will  cry  out  '  Ileni-jette!  'tis  I  vour  sit. 
terLmise!  Do  you  not  hear  me,  Ilenriette.'sister  ?  " 
As  tlie  poor  giil  thus  repeated  the  crv  which  she 
hoped  would  lead  her  to  her  dear  sister,  her  voice  un- 
consciously rose  to  a  louder  pitch,  until  the  last  words 
were  uUered  with  all  her  strength,  and  she  seemed  to 
think  that  even  there  might  »he  be  heard  bv  the  loved 
one. 


At  the  same  time  the  organ  from  the  cliurch  swelled 
out  a  hymn  of  praise  to  God,  that  seemed  almost  like 
mockery  ;  for  here,  at  the  very  steps  of  God's  temple, 
was  thei^  not  one  of  Ilis  children  in  deepest  despair, 
vyhich  had  been  caused  by  man,  and  sufleriiig  an  afflic- 
tion which  God  had  visited  upon  her,  perhaps  for  the 
sins  of  her  fathers. 

But  the  ways  i>f  God  are  past  finding  out,  and  in 
hi.s  own  good  time  will  he  pour  his  balm  upon  the 
stricken  one's  heart,  and  in  the  fullness  of  his  love  re- 
move all  sorrow  and  care  from  her  pure  and  spotless 
life. 

I'ierre  feared  lest  his  mother  should  hear  Louise's 
cry,  and  he  knew  by  the  sound  of  tlie  organ  that  the 
service  was  concluded,  therefore  he  said,  soothingly: 

"  Hush  !  Louise,  they  will  hear  you.    The  service  is 
over,  ami  mother  will  be    coming  I'ack  to  watcli  yon." 
"And  if  she  does  not  hear  me  singing  she  wilfbeal 
me."  ^ 

And  the  poor  creature  commenced  to  sing  iu  a  feeble 
voice,  just  as  the  richly  dressed  people  bpgau  to  pour 
out  of  the  church,  brushing,  without  thought,  the  poor 
blind  gill  will!  their  elegant  robes. 

Tlie  feeble,  but   sweet  voice  attracted   none  of  tlio 
woishipeis;   thev  were  so  much   occupied    with    the 
thoughts   of  God  which  the  good   priest   had  instilled      . 
into  their  minds  that  they  eoiild  not  see  one  of  His    ' 
(■hildren  who  was  singing'her  life  away. 

Auioiig  the  last  jWho  came  from  the  house  of  God 
was  the  Countess  de  Linieres,  and  upon  her  face  was 
still  the  same  look  of  sadness  which  seemed  habitual  to 
it. 

I  have  prayed  to  heaven  to  restore  to  me  my  child.'* 
she  said,  half  to  herself.  "  Will  my  prayer  never  be 
answered." 

Tlie  sad  song  which  Louise  was  singing  arrested  her 
attention,  and  stirred  strange  emotions  in  her  breast. 

"What  a  voice!  How  tender  and  how  sad.  It 
awakens  pity  akin  to  pain.  Gracious  Heaven  !  What 
is  the  meaning  of  that  fixed  look  ?"  and  bending  over 
the  poor  beggar,  she  asked.  "  My  cliild  can  you  not 
see  me?" 

"  N5  madam,"  was  Louise's  low,  sad  answer. 
"  Poor  child  !"  exclaimed  the  countess. 
"  Do  you  pity  me,  madam?  "  and    Louise   asked  the 
question    almost   wonderingly,    little    dreaming    how 
much  right  she   had   to  claim  pity  and   love    from  the 
aristocratic  lady  who  was  bending  over  her. 

As  the  blind  girl  spoke  she  felt  a  hard  grip  upon  her 
arm,  and  she  knew  that  Mother  Frochard  was  listen- 
ing to  whatever  she  might  say. 

The  Countess  de  Linieres  saw  the  hard-featured  old 
ha>;,  and  she  could  not  but  wonder  at  the  marked 
conlrast  between  the  two. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


CHARITY   AND    PITY. 


The  blind  girl's  question,  "do  you  pity  me,  mad- 
am ?"  aroused  all  the  the  great  flood  of  sympathy  that 
the  countess  was  so  well  known  to  have;  and  it  wa« 
witli  evident  emotion  that  she  answered  : 

"  Pity  you  ?  indeed  1  do,  my  child." 

These  words  fell  with  a  sweet  sound  upon  the  poor 
gill's  eager  ears,  and  she  8tepj)ed  nearer  the  kind  lady, 
leirardless  of  llie  proximity  of  the  old  hag,  who  was 
doing  all  she  could  to  make  the  pme,  youug  lite 
wretched. 

"  You  pity  me  because  I  am  blind,"  she  said,  in  a 
touching  voice.  "Alas,  madam,  thai  is  not  my  great- 
est  misfortune." 

'•  What, do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  kind-hearted  lady, 
in  surprise.  "  Speak,  child ;  I  am  rich,  perhaps  I 
can 

"  Ah  !  if  I  dare  !  "  exclaimed  Louise,  bracing  herself 
to  tell  her  story  to  this  lady  who  spoke  to  her  in  such 
pitying  accents,  and  who  could  do  so  much  toward  aid- 
ing her  to  find  lier  sister. 


28 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


f. 


But.  Mother  Frocliard,  who  liad  heard  Louise's  last 
words,  liad  i>o  intention  of  allowing  the  conversation 
to  pioceed  any  further,  and  she  graspe(i  the  hliiid  girl's 
tender  arm  between  her  hard  and  wicked  fingers,  in- 
flicting a  hurt  which  caused  the  poor  girl  to  cry  out 
with  pain. 

•'Eh,  eh?  what  is  it  ?"  asked  the  old  hag,  as  she 
pressed  her  fat,  dirty  face  close  to  the  aristocratic  fea- 
tures of  tlie  countess,  while  her  small,  gray  eyes 
watched  the  lady's  face  as  if  to  lind  out  what  Louise 
had  already  told. 

'■You  have  a  relative — a  mother  ' ''  asked  the  coun- 
tess of  Louise,  utterly  ignoring  La  Prochard's  iuiper- 
tinent  interruption. 

'•Mother!"  exclaimed  the  blind  girl,  in  tones  of 
deepest  despair. 

In  that  one  word  all  wretchedness  of  her  hard  lot 
was  embodied,  and  her  very  soul  seemed  to  go  out 
with  the  word. 

Louise  had  spoken  before  her  tormentor  could  pre- 
vent her  ;  but  the  old  woman  revenged  herself  by  an- 
other wicked  pinch,  and  at  the  same  time  speaking 
quickly,  as  if  to  prevent  the  laily  from  noticing  the 
blind  girl's  tone. 

••  Yes,  my  beautiful  lady,"  she  said  in  her  shrill, 
coarse  tones,  while  she  screwed  her  face  up  into  what 
?he  intended  as  a  most  humble  smile,  "  she  has  a  good 
mother,  if  I  do  say  so." 

'""Is  this  your 'daughter?"  asked  the  countess,  in 
great  surprise,  as  she  gazed  at  the  two  now  side  by 
side,  and  compared  the  slight,  shrinking,  beautiful 
girl  with  the  fawning,  fat  and  coarse  old  woman  who 
thus  claimed  to  be  the  mother  of  one  who  resembled 
her  as  little  as  do  the  angels  resemble  those  imps  of 
I    Satan  that  torment  lost  souls. 

r*    "  Tlie  youngest  of  seven  that  Heaven  has  blessed  me 

with,  my  lady,"  replied  tlie  old  woman,  as  she  dropped 

a  stiff  courtesy,  and  tried  to  put  on  a  re.signed  and  coii- 

^    tented  look.     "  Tlia'j  is  what  the  darling  was  going  to 

Vtell  you — isn't  it  deary  ?  " 

A  tierce,  sly  blow  in  the  back  warned  the  trembling 
Louise  what  her  fate  would  be  if  she  did  not  answei- 
as  the  old  hag  told  her  to  :  but  in  spite  ot  the  old  ^Yo• 
man's  threats  the  poor  gir!  could  not  thus  tell  a  false- 
hood, and  in  addition  destroy  the  faint  hopes  of  seeing 
her  fii.'iter  that  the  countess's  kind  words  had  caused  to 
spring  up  in  her  bosom. 

''I — I — '' she  stammered  in  her  attempt  to  reply; 
but  another  vicious  blow  from  La  Frochard  caused  her 
to  reel  and  almost  lose  her  breath. 

As  if  she  was  afflicted  with  an  excess  of  motherly 
love,  the  old  woman  went  towards  the  trembling  girl, 
and  under  pretense  of  siipportiuL',  took  her  by  the  arm 
in  a  maimer  that  csused  Louise  the  most  intense  pain, 
and  at  the  same  time,  almost  prevented  her  from 
speaking. 

Then,  with  her  false  smile,  and  affectation  of  tender- 
ness, she  asked — or,  it  would  be  more  proper  to  say. 
answered  for  Louise,:  i 

"  Certainly.     Isn't  it  so,  my  dear?"  \ 

"  She  seems  to  be  ill  and  suffering,"  said  the  countess,- 
as  she  saw  how  badly  the  poor  girl  trembled,  and,  at- 
tributing it  to  physical  weakness,  rather  than  emotion, 
feared  tliat  she  was  sick  and  concluded  that  that  was 
the  reason  why  Louise  had  not  answered  her  ques- 
tions. 

'■  Ah  !  good,  charitable  souls,  like  you,  my  lady,  have 
pity  on  her,"  replied  the  old  woman,  in  her  whining 
voice,  that  grated  on  Louise's  ears,  and  evi-ii  caused 
her  to  shrink  away,  as  if  with  pain.  "She  has  a  nice, 
good  home.     Haven't  you,  my  dear?" 

As  the  old  hag  asked  this  question   of  Louise,  she 
clutched  her  more  firmly  by  the  arm,  and   in  a   low, 
hoarse  voice,  whispered : 
'Speak  out!" 

•'  Yes — yes — "  faltered  Louise. 

Feaiftil  lest  the  countess  sliiiiild  begin  to  have  some 
suspicion  of  the  real  state  of  affairs,  La  Frochard  step- 
ped in  fiont  of  Louisp,  and  thus  prevented  her  from 
saying  anything  further.  


"  Give  this  to  your  mother,  and  pray  for  me,"  said 
the  countess,  as  she  handed  the  poor  girl  a  gold-piece, 
and  entered  her  sedan  chair,  and  iu  a  few  momeutii 
was  out  of  sight. 

Until  the  chair  in  which  the  countess  was  seated, 
was  out  of  sight.  Mother  Frochard  watched  it  nar- 
rowly, and  stood  in  a  'Jiotheily  sort  ot  attitude  near 
Louise  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  last  one  of  the  servant  a 
wearing  the  De  Linieres  livery,  had  turned  the  cor- 
ner, she  grasped  the  money  eagerly  and  with  no  gentle 
force. 

"Ah!  a  louis.  another  gold-piece!  It  has  been  a 
good  day,  after  all." 

And  carefully  placing  the  money  in  her  catiacioua 
pocket,  the  old  woman  looked  anxiously  aronna  to  see 
which  one  of  the  many  streets  that  met  at  the  square 
offered  the  best  facilities  for  her  business. 

At  length  she  decided  upon  her  route,  and  going  ijp 
to  Louise,  she  seized  her  roughly  by  the  hand,  then 
gave  her  arm  a  pinch,  by  way  of  leminder,  and  saitl 
in  herhaid,  stern  voice: 

"  Come  on  now,  and  sing  out.     Sing,  I  tell  you." 

Thus  commanded,  the  poor  girl  began  in  a  low  voice 
that  trembled  with  its  suppressed  tmotion,  and  the  two 
walked  slowly  away,  while  the  old  hag  continued  her 
shrill,  monotonous  cry  of : 

'•  Charity,  good  people  ;  charity  for  a  poor  blind 
girl." 

Jacques  and  Pierre  had  been  silent  witnesses  of  the 
scene  between  the  countess  and  Louise,  and  nothing 
but  the  number  of  people  that  were  passing  prevented 
Jacques  from  adding  the  louis  given  by  the  countess 
to  some  liquor  dealer's  hoard. 

When  La  Frochai  d  and  Louise  went  on  their  way, 
Pierre  started  to  follow  them,  in  order  that  he  might 
have  the  satisfaction  of  gazing  upon  the  slitjht  form  of 
the  blind  gill,  if  only  from  the  distance,  but  he  was 
stopped  by  Jacques's  brutal  voice. 

'■  Stop  !  "  he  cried  in  an  angry  tone,  "  I  have  a  word 
to  sf.y  to  you." 

For  an  instant  the  cripple  did  not  heed  the  voice  ; 
but  the  thought  of  what  his  brotlier  might  do,  caused 
him  to  stop,  turn  half  around  and  ask  :  ^ 

"What  is  it?" 

''  I  forbid  you  to  follow  Louise !  "  exclaimed  Jacques 
in  an  aiigrv  voice. 

"What  ?  You  forbid  ? "  asked  Pierre  as  if  he  doubt- 
ed that  he  had  heard  aright. 

"  Yes,  and  J  forbid  you  to  even  think  of  her." 

This  time  Jacques  voice  was  hoarse  with  rage,  and 
he  looked  as  if  iie  was  about  to  spring  upon  Ins  de- 
formed brother,  and  kill  him  then  and  there  because 
he  even  dared  to  cast  his  eyes  iu  the  direction  the 
blind  girl  had  taken. 

It  was  evident  that  this  brute  of  a  man,  who  knew 
no  other  pleas-iii'e  than  drinking  or  making  others  sr-f 
fer,  had,  in  his  own  brutal  way,  fallen  in  love  with  the 
poor  i;iil  whom  he  delighted  to  torment. 

"  Jacques.  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  Pierre  in  an  al- 
most iiiiploiing  tone.  "You  would  not  be  so  cruel. 
No,  no  Jacques.     Why  are  you  so  cruel?" 

'•  Never  mind  why,  I  forbid  .you,  that  is  enough,  and 
if  you  dare  to  disoliey  me,  I'll  break  those  misshapen 
legs  over  again,  Cupid." 

As  he  said  this  he  dealt  the  poor  cripple  a  cruel  blow 
which  knocked  him  down,  as  a  mild  way  of  enforcing 
his  commands. 

"  Ah  !  kiiyne,  kill  me  if  you  will,"  said  Pierre  as  ho 
slowly  arose  from  the  ground,  and  in  a  lower  voice  he 
added:  "But  I  love  her,  and  you  cannot  forbi</ 
that." 

Jacques  cast  a  look  of  scorn  and  contempt  at  the 
cripple,  who  stood  shivering  like  one  iu  an  ague  fit, 
and  then  lighting  his  iii.sepaiable  companion — a  short 
clay  pipe — moved  away  in  the  direction  of  the  nearest 
cabaret. 

For  a  few  moments  the  poor  boy,  who  had  been  de- 
formed by  the  brother  who  should  have  protected  in- 
stead of  healing  him.  stooil  in  a  dejected  aititu<ie.  He 
knew    full     well    why    Jacques    had   forbidden    Dim 


J* 


^ 


^ 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


29 


even  to  think  of  Louise,  and  he  slmddered  as  he 
thought  of  the  additional  ciueliy  which  the  poor  gir< 
would  have  to  suffer,  because  of  the  love  which 
Jacques— cruel,  hard-hearted  Jacques — had  conceived 
for  her. 


CHAPTER  XVIH. 


AN    HONEST   LOVE. 


We  will  returu  to  Heuriette  who,  like  her  sister, 
was  living  in  the  hope  of  meeting  the  one  who  had 
been  so  cruelly  torn  fiom  her  by  the  rude  hands  of  un- 
Bjirupulous  men. 

/  She  is  seated  in  a  poorly  furnished  attic  room,  en- 
^  gaged  at  sewing,  while  her  thoughts  wander  back  to 
j  tlie  fatal  night  when,  strangers  in  the  great  citv,  the 
1  two  unprotected  girls  were  doomed  by  a  hard,  unyield- 
\  ing  fate  to  wander  apart,  seeking,  but  never  iinding 
\he  other. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  a  low  knock  was 
heard  at  the  door,  and  the  Chevalier  de  Vaudrey 
entered. 

A  careless  observer  would  have  seen  that  he  was  a 
lover,  and  that  the  object  of  his  adoration  was  before 
him 

"  Hcnriette,'*  he  said,  tender  y  taking  her  hands  and 
nreasMjg  theiu  to  his  lips,  "  have  you  heard  anythnig? 
You  seem  agitated  " 

'•  I  was  expecting  you,  I  mean  I  thought  perhaps 
you  would  bring  me  knews  of  Louise,''  replied  the 
f  lir  irirl  in  pretty  confusion. 

'•  No,  I  have  heard  nothing,"  replied  the  chevalier, 
regretfully.  '  Yet  you  know  I  have  occupied  myself 
unceasingly  for  the  past  three  months  in  vain  endeav- 
ors to  ascertain  her  fate.  But  to-day,  Heuriette,  1 
wisiied  to  speak  to  you  of  something  else — of  myself." 
"I  know,  monsieur,  all  that  you  would  say  to  me," 
replied  Heuriette,  in  a  low,  sweet  voice.  '■  I  know 
that  yon  rescued  me  at  the  risk  of  your  own  life,  from 
a  frightful  peril,  and  believe  me,  I  am  not  ungr/ite- 
r    ful." 

'•  Henriette  do  you  feel  no  other  sentiment  than 
gratitude  ?  Do  you  not  understand  my  heart  ?  Until 
yesterday,  I  was  bound  in  honor  to  impose  silence  on 
my  lile,  circumstances  lias  released  me.  and  to-day  I 
can,  and  dare  avow  with  pride  that  I  love  you." 

The  young  man  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  e.xpectlng 
the  young  girl  to  speak  ;  but,  as  she  kept  silent,  he 
tuntniued  in  a  deep,  manly  voice: 

"  Henriette,  mine  is  not  a  trifling,  fiivolons  love.  I 
loved  you  from  the  moment  when  I  first  saw  you 
courageously  defending  your  honor  with  prayers,  with 
threats,  and  with  teai's.  I  l<rved  you  fiom  the  moment 
yoni-  ninocence  appealed  to  my  n'lanhood,  and  1  swear 
t^you  before  Heaven,  that  this  love,  born  in  an  in- 
'  '  staiit,  shall  end  only  with  my  life." 

"Oh,  this  is  wrong,  wrontr, "  said  Henriette,  as  the 
great  tears  of  gratitude  came  welling  up  in  her  eyes. 
"I  have  known  too  long  all  that  your  heart  was  .stri- 
ving to  hide  from  me,  and  I  have  beengnillv  to  allow 
il  to  distract  me  from  the  only  duty  1  have  in'  life.  You 
should  not  compel  me  to  confess  liiy  weakness." 
,  "Heuriette!"  exclaimed  the  chevalier,  reproach- 
fully. 

•  Leave  me  to  my  sacred  task,  and  when  Louise  is 
r-^stored  to  ray  arms,  I  shall  have  earned  the  right  to 
be  happy." 

"  Henriette,  dear  Henriette "  began  De  Vaudrey: 

but  he  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  a'  the  door  and  an 
vistant  after  the  round,  s'miliny,  inquisitive  face  oC  Pi- 

ird  was  seen  at  the  half  opened  door. 

'•  Picanl !  "  exclaimed  the  cheva'ier,  in  surprise  at 
seeing  his  valet. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  it  is  Picard,  only  Picard,"  .oaid  the 
Viilet.  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  What  brings  ypu  here  ?  "'  and 
De  Vaudrey's"  voice,  usually  so  soft,  was  now  harsh 
•    and  angry. 


tone 


I'^audrey,  very  anx- 


"  The  fellow  is  my  valet,''  he  added,  in  a  low 
to  Henriette. 

"  Yes,  mamzelle,"  said  the  valet  with  an  equivo- 
cal bow.  '•  I  am  Picard  the  discreet."  and  he  thought 
to  himself,  ■'  This  must  be  the  chambermaid,  and  he  ia 
in  Her  room.     Oh,  he  is  doing  well.'' 

"  What  brings  you  here  ?"  asked  the  chevalier,  im- 
patiently. 

"A  communication  for  you,  sir,  of  the  greatest  ita- 
portance,"  answered  Picani,  with  an  important  air. 

"  I  must  take  my  woik  down  stairs,  they  are  wait- 
ing for  it,"  said  Henriette,  thinking  that  the  valet  had 
something  of  a  private  nature  to  say  to  his  master. 

"  Vou  will  return  ?"  asked  De  Vai 
iously. 

"  Oh  yes,  in  a  few  minutes.'' 

"She  will  return,"  said  Picard  to  himself,  "well that 
is  good.  Mistress  below  stairs  and  a  pretty  chamber- 
maid up  here.  This  is  the  young  man  who  vj-as  study- 
ing philosophy,"  and  a  silf-satislied  smile  passeci  over 
his  face  as  he  thought  that  his  master  was  walking  in 
the  way  he  admired. 

'•  Well,  sir,"  said  De  Vaudrey,  as  soon  as  the  door 
closed  and  they  were  alone,  "  we  are  alone  now,  what 
brings  you  here  ? ' 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  following  yon,  monsieur,"  re- 
plied Picard  in  a  saucy  voice. 

"Following  me,  you  scoundrel!"  exclaimed  the 
chevalier  in  an  angry  tone. 

"  Scouncirel  is  good,  very  good,"  said  Picard  iu  a  low 
voice.     '•  Now  he  is  something  like  a  master." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

'•  1  was  saying,  monsieur,  that  scoundiel  is  not  naif 
strong  enouifh,  particularly  when  I  come  to  find  out 
that  after  all '' 

"After  all!     Whall" 

And  De  Vaudrey  was  fast  losing  his  temper,  a  state 
in  which  tlie  valet  seemed  most  anxious  to  see  him. 

"  Good,  he  will  kick  nie  in  a  minute,"  tiiought  Pic- 
ard, as  he  said  in  an  impudent  sort  of  way  : 

"  You  must  know,  monsieur,  that  I  had  become  so 
disgusted  with  your  good  conduct  that  I  begged  your 
uncle  to  relieve  me  of  the  duty  of  seiviiig  you  any 
longer,  ;ind  if  he  had  not  insisted  on  my  remaining  and 
watching  you " 

"  So  you  have  become  a  spy.  Master  Picard,  have 
you  ?  ''  interrupted  De  Vaudrey  in  an  angiy  voice. 

"Yes  sir,  a  spy  on  you.  Why,  monsieur,  if  I  had 
not,  how  should  f.  have  found  out  that  you  were  a  gal- 
lant and  a  roue  i  " 

"Hone!  "  exclaimed  the  chevalier,  who  was  now 
regaining  liis  temper,  and  be<'omiiig  amused.  "  Well, 
how  did  you  find  that  out  !" 

"  I5y  obeying  the  nisti  uclions  of  your  uncle.  I  follow 
you  to  the  house  of  yo4ir  inamorata,  and  instead  of 
finding  you  with  that  much  honored  lady,  I  discover 
you  enjoying  the  society  of  her  chambermaid." 

"  Chambermaiil  !"  exclaimed  De  Vaudrey,  not  nii- 
derstanding  at  first  what  his  valet  meant. 

"  Oh,  you  have  the  fairest  of  excuses,"  said  Picard 
in  a  light  tone.     •'  She  is  as  pretty  as "' 

"  Look  you.  Master  Picard,''  ci  ied  the  clnvalier,  now 
thoroughly  enraged,  "another  word  and  I  will  throw 
you  out  of  that  window.'' 

"Oh,  that  is  Koing  fiiriln-r  than  I  liargained  for,'' 
said  Picard,  getting  a  little  alarmed.  '-Thrown  out  of 
a  sixth  story  window." 

'   Li«fen  to  me,  sir,'' said  De  Vaudrey  sternly. 

"  I  am  all  ears,  monsieur;  but  iilease  leiuenibcr  that 
we  are  very  high  up,"  and  Picard  made  a  grimace  that 
Was  inexpressibly  council. 

"Return  at  once  to  the  count,  and  tell  him  that  after 
having  dogge<l  my  footsteps  ilay  by  day,  you  have  at 
last  found  me  in  the  presence  ci' the  woman  I  love." 

"  You  mean  of  the  chambermaid  of  the  woman  you 
love.     Same  thing,"  sai<l  Picaid.  tlippanily. 

"Silence,  sir!  I  tell  you  that  you  have  seen  the 
woman  I  love,  and  you  may  inf'ortn  the  count  thai  fhe 
is  to  be  my  wife."  and  De  Vaudrey's  voice  rang  out 
loud  and  clear,  while  a  piouii   light  iu    )iis  eyes  shew 


30 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


how  much  of  an  honor  he  felt  it  would  be  for  him  if 
the  womau  of  his  choice  ehould  consent  to  marry  him. 

"  Eh,  your  wife?"  exclAimed   Picard  in   surprise. 

"  Silence,  sir,  she  is  coming." 

Ashe  spoke  the  door  opened  and  Henriette  entered 
the  room.  Her  beautiful  eyes  were  filled  with  tears, 
and  her  face  was  expressive  of  tlie  deepest  misery. 

With  that  abandon  whicli  gi-ief  miparts,  she  threw 
herself  into  a  chair,  and  laying  her  head  on  the  table 
Bobbed  as  though  )ier  heart  would  break. 

"  Shame!  shame  !  I  am  sure  I  do  not  deserve  to  be 
eo  insulted,"  she  sobbed  half  to  herself. 

'•  What  is  it,  Henriette?  Who  has  insulted  you  V 
asked  De  Vaudrey,  while  the  lire  that  flashed  from 
his  eyes  boded  no  good  for  the  iusulter. 

'•  1  am  ordered  to  leave  the  house,"  replied  Henriette, 
Stiil  sobbing. 

••  Ordered  to  leave  the  house!  Wliy?"  and  the 
chevalier  seemed  to  be  in  a  perfect  whirl  of  amaze- 
ment. 

'Alas,  monsieur,  they  tell  me  that  a  young  girl  liv- 
iu-;  alone,  has  not  the  right  to  receive  the  visits  of 
gentlemen  such  as  you." 

"Such  as  I?  I  who  have  always  treated  you  with 
the  respect  due  a  sister!" 

'■  A  moment  ago  she  was  his  wife,"  said  Picard,  who 
hud  been  eagerly  listening  to  the  dialogue,  to  himself, 
''now  she  is  his  sister.     Oh,  it's  all  right." 

"The  mistress  of  tiie  house,  svho  until  now  has  been 
80  kind  to  me,  says  she  cannot  permit  me  to  remain, 
for  she  has  a  good  name  to  protect,  which  my  conduct 
scandalizes,"  continued  Henriette,  in  a  low,  sad  voice  : 
'•  \\'hat  could  I  say  1  She  has  ordered  me  to  leave  at 
once." 

"  Poor  thing!  "  said  Picard,  in  a  sympathizing  voice. 
"  Monsieur,  I  say  this  is  unjust,  this  is — it " 

"  Shameful !"  exclaimed  De  Vaudrey,  whose  indig- 
nation at  first  prevented  him  from  speaking. 

"  Certainly  it  is  shameful,"  said  Picard,  earnestly. 
"Mamzelle,  I  will  go  to  that  woman  myself.  I'll  tell 
her  you  are  not  yet — that  is,  I  mean  that  you — that 
lie — that  I — I  don't  know  what  I  do  mean,"  and  the 
valet,  who,  despite  his  love  for  adventure,  was' really 
a  good  hearted,  honest  fellow,|turned  away  to  hide 
the  tears  which  sprang  to  his  eyes. 

"  Henriette,"  said  the  chevalier  tenderly,  "dry|your 
tears.     You  shall  leave  this  house  to  enter  mine." 

"  That  is  pretty  cool !"  exclaimed  the  valet  in  sur- 
prise ;  but  in  so  low  a  tone  that  his  master  did  not 
iiear  him. 

"  Not  mine  alone,"  continued   De  Vaudrey,  "  but 
yours  as  well,  for  you  shall  enter  it  on   the   arm  of 
your  husband." 
y        "  Your  wife !"  exclaimed   the  weeping  girl.     "No, 
I     no,  that  is  impossible." 

I  "I   agree    with   you,    perfectly,"   thought   Picard, 

\     whose  ideas  as  regards  buth  an(f  position   were  xery 
\decided. 

"  Thuik  of  the  immeasurable  distance  which  sepa- 
rates us,"  cont.inned  Henriette  in  a  firm  voice.  "  Be- 
lieve that  1  appreciate  the  generosity  which  inspires 
you,  yet  my  duty  impellsme  to  refuse." 

"  Refuse!  "  repeated  the  chevalier  in  surprise. 

"  Spoken  like  a  sensible  girl,"  was  Picard's  mental 
comment  upon  Heiiriette's  decision. 

"How  could  I  defy  the  will  of  your  family?"  said 
the  poor  girl,  speaking  half  to  herself.  "They  are  rich 
and  powerful.  A  marriage  with  me  wonld  entail  their 
enmity,  even  their  persecution." 

"  If  my  family  will  not  give  their  consent,  I  will  find 
means  to  compel  them,"  was  De  Vaudrey 's  angry  ex- 
clamation. 

"  Cei  tainly.  we'fl  compel  them,"  said  Picard,  sud- 
denly espousing  the  young  girl's  cause. 

"  Picard,  my  hat,"  said  the  chevalier,  in  an  imperious 
tone.     "  We  must  go." 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  we  must  go."  was  Picard's  com- 
ment, as  he  handed  his  master  his  hat,  and  then  he  said 
half  to  himself:  "  I  shall  want  to  marry  her  myself  in 
a  few  minutes." 


"  Henriette,  I  go  to  find  the  means  of  assuring  our 
happiness,"  said  De  Vaudrey,  going  toward  the  door. 

"Farewell,  monsieur,  farewell,"  exclaimed  tliepoor 
girl,  again  bursting  into  tears. 

"  No,  Henrietta,  I  will  not  say  farewell,  I  cannot 
part  with  all  my  hopes.  1  need  them  to  give  me  cour- 
age.    Au-revoir." 

"  Au-revoir,"  exclaimed  Henriette,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  the  man  she  loved. 

Picard  had  wai»ed  in  oi'der  to  say  some  comforting 
word  to  the  poor  girl,  and  as  soon'as  his  master  had 
left  the  room,  he  said,  in  what  he  intended  to  be  a  po- 
lite tone ;  but  which  failed  most  signally,  owing  to 
his  emotion : 

"Mamzelle,  I  admire  you.  I  esteem  yon.  I — I — au- 
revoir,"  and  he  rusheJ  out  of  the  door  to"  hide  his  con- 
fusion. 

Left  alone,  Henriette  gave  herself  up  to  deep  reflec- 
tion. 

Should  she  throw  her  love  aside  for  duty  ?  was 
the  question  she  asked  herself  many  times,  and 
hard  indeed  was  the  struggle  in  the  poor  girl's  heart. 

Ou  one  side  she  saw  wealth  and  happiness,  and  on 
the  other  misery  and  privation;  but  the  duty  she  owed 
her  sister  at  last  decided  her. 

"No,  I  will  not  see  him  again.  I  have  not  the 
strength  to  continue  this  conflict  between  love  and 
duty,"  she  said,  m  an  audible  voice.  "He  loves  me! 
Oh,  is  it  not  a  beautiful  dream?  Ah  !  it  is  but  a 
dream,  and  the  awakening  has  come  to  remind  me  of 
my  guilty  neglect.  I  am  justly  punished,  insulted, 
driven  from  this  house.  I  must  go — go  where  I  shall 
never  see  him  again." 

And  as  she  concluded,  thus  deciding  between  her  love 
and  duty,  she  bowed  her  fair  head,  and  wept  hoi,  bit- 
ter tears  of  sorrow,  and  blighted  love. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

FOUND    AND   LOST, 

Henriette  remained  in  her  grief-stricken  position 
for  some  time  ;  but  she  was  suddenly  aroused  from  it 
by  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  entrance  of  a  lady  rich- 
\y  dressed,  and  bearing  evident  marks  of  one  in  the 
first  circles  of  society. 

It  was  the  Countess  de  Linieres. 

"  This  is  Mademoiselle  Henriette  Girurd,  I  believe?'' 
she  asked,  in  a  kind  tone. 

"That  is  my  name,  madam,"  replied  Henriette,  in 
great  astonishment. 

"  You  have  been  warmly  recommended  to  me,  made 
moiselle." 

"  Recommended  to  you,  madam?"  _ 

"  I  am  one  of  a  society  of  chaiitable  persons  who,  ; 
the  good  report  I  have  heard  of  vou  is  true,  can  assist 
you,"  said  the  countess,  thus  hici^ing   the  real   purport 
other  visit. 

"I  am  not  in  need,  madam — alas!  J  do  not  mean 
that.     I  mean  that  I  am  not  in  want — I  can  work." 

"  Can  I  do  nothing  for  j'ou  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  replied  Henrietta,  and  then  asif  sudden- 
(•  recollecting  herself  she  added  imploringly  :     "What 
o  I  say  ?       Yes,  madam,  I  accept  your  aid,  nay,  1   im- 
plore it." 

"  Whatws  it  you  wish  ?  "  asked  the  countess  in  a 
kind  tone. 

"Madam,"  said  Henriette  earnestly.  "I  do  not  need 
money,  I  ask  for  someshelter  where  I  can  live  and 
work'  far  from  falsehood  and  calumny,  and  away  ftom 
liini." 

"  From  him  1  Do  you  wish  to  escape  fiom  the  per- 
secution of  some  one  ?  " 

"From  one  who  wishes  to  make  me  his  wife,"  re- 
plied Henriette  sadly. 

"  His  wife  ?  "  repeated  the  countess,  with  a  view  of 
causing  the  young  girl  to  say  more. 


t 


J'HE  TWO  OUPMANS 


"X>o  you  pity  mi  '  mia  bliiid  Loi  isc,  littlr.  drcamin;/  of  the  rijkt  she  had  to  claim  pity  of  the  lady 

whonaddressed  her. 


1 


^\ 


THE  TWO  ORrHANS. 


31 


"  I  have  refused  that  title,  ami  ytt  I  iliali'ust  my 
coiirag-e  to  resist  his  entreaties." 

"  You  have  done  well,  madamoiaelle,  and  it  is  my 
duty  to  speak  frankly  to  you.  I  am  a  iieai-  relative  of 
the  Chevalier's.  I  have  known  for  some  time  of  the 
attachment  wliich  exists  between  you,  and  I  have  de- 
fended him  against  the  wrath  of  his  uncle,  my  husband. 
But  rettectioii  has  shown  ine  my  duty  to  both  of  you. 
The  opposition  of  his  family  renders  this  marriage  im- 
Dossible." 

"  Madam,"  replied  Henriette  with  a  tin^e  of  pride 
iu  her  voice.  "  I  had  determined  on  my  course  be- 
fore seeiiii^  3'ou.     The  path  of  sacrifice  and  duty." 

"I  shall  not  prove  unt;rateful,"  replied  the  countess, 
touched  by  the  youny  girl's  words.  "1  am  rich  and 
powerful. 

"  Powerful !  "  exclaimed  Henriette,  thinking  perhaps 
shemiglit  interest  her  in  Louise's  fate. 

•'  If  at  any  lime  I  can  show  my  appreciation  of  your 
noble  and  disinterested  conduct " 

"Madam,  you  can!  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl  eag- 
erly, not  noticing  that  she  was  intei-rupting  the  coun- 
tess, so  eager  was  she.  •'  Now  at  this  very  instant  you 
can.'' 

"  How  ?" 

"  Use  your  power  to  find  the  poor  child  who  has 
l)een  torn  from  my  protection.  Restore  her  to  me,  and 
you  can  ask  no  sacrifice  I  will  not  make.  I  vvill  tear 
iny  love  from  mv  heart,  and  disappear  with  her  where 
you  anil  yours  shall  never  see  me  more.  Do  I  ask  too 
much  1  " 

'•No,  no,"  answered  the  countess  quickly.  "I  pro- 
mise you  not  alone  my  aid  ;  but  that  of  the  greatest 
power  in  Pans.  Give  me  her  name,  age,  and  descrip- 
tion." • 

"A  description,  alas!  madam,  too  easily  given.  She 
is  but  sixteen  and  Idind." 

"Blind,  blind,"  repeated  the  countess,  while  her 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  blind  girl  she  had  met  a 
short  time  previous. 

"  Her  name  is  Louise." 

'•  Louise  !"  exclaime<l  the  laily,  "  that  name  is  very 
dear  to  me.  Be  comforted,  my  child,  we  will  lind 
your  sister," 

''  She  is  not  my  sister,  madam."' 

"  Not  your  sister  ? '' 

"  No,  madam  ;  but  I  owe  h^r  the  love  and  tender- 
ness of  a  mother  and  sister  combined,  for  she  saved  us 
all  from  misery  and  want,  my  father,  my  mother  and 
myself." 

"How  could  a  poor  blind  child  do  that?"  asked  the 
countess  in  great  surprise. 

"  My  father  foinid  her  on  the  steps  of  the  church 

Henriette  was  interrupted  by  a  low  ciy  from  the 
countess,  and  siie.saw  thiit  she  had  turned  as  jiale  as 
death.      She  stopped;    but   the  countess   said   fever- 

'""^"'/b'u 
where. 
howT' 
'■  Prom  poverty  so  terrible  that  my  fa'her  had  not^ 

Ieven  breaa  to  tjive  us.  Anxious  to  save  at  least,  the 
life  of  his  child,  he  took  me.  while  my  mother  slept, 
ami  set  out  toward  Ni)tre  Dame.  Snow  covered  the 
steps  of  the  ciiurch,  ami  mv  father  stood  weeping  and 
ii'resolute,  when  suddenly  he  heard  a  plaintive  cry. 
He  approached  and  saw  a'litile  baby  hall-lnuied  under 
the  snow.  He  took  her  to  his  breast  to  warm  her  be- 
numbed and  frozen  Innbs,  when  the  thought  came  to 
him,  as  this  child  would  have  died  had  he  not  iii  rived 
in  time  to  save  it,  so  his  own  mitrbt  die  before  help 
could  reach  her.  '  I  will  leave  neither  of  them, 
le  returned    canying    both    infants   in 


the  steps   of  a  church  1    Tell  me  when  and 
You   say   she  saved  you  all   from  misery — 


said,    and 
arms." 

The  countess'  eager  attention  to  Henriette's  words 
was  painful,  so  anxious  did  she  appear  to  liesir  more. 

"  Oh  !    go  on,    mademoiselle,  go   on,"  she  cried,  fev- 
erishlv. 

"  Entering  his  home,"  said  Henriette,  cfmtinuing  her 
story,  -'he   said   to   mother,    'we  had  only  one  c' ■ 


Heaven  has  sent  ua  another,'  and  he  was  right.  Hea- 
ven did  reward  his  genei-ous  action,  for  on  opening  the 
clotliing  of  tlie  cliild  a  roll  of  gold  was  found,  together 
with  these  words  written  on  a  scrap  of  paper  ;  •  Her 
name  is  Louise — save  hei-." "' 

Again  a  low  cry  as  of  pain  burst  from  the  countess 'a 
(juivering  lips,  and  had  she  not  grasped  a  c-hairfor  sup- 
port, she  would  have  fallen  to  the  Hoor. 

"Are  you  ill,  madam  {  "  asked  Henriette,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"No — no — I — it  is  nothing,"  gasped  the  stricken 
la<ly,  'your  sad  story  has  moved  me  greatly.  Then 
the  infant  fell  amon^  (iood  and  worthy  people,  did  she 
not?     Tell  me  all,  all." 

"Ah,  madam.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  we  loved  her" 
"Yes,"  said  the  countess,  with  a  world  of  tender- 
ness in  her  voice,  "you  have  a  noble,  loving  heart. 
Now  I  know  why  Maurice  loves  you.  I  will  love  you 
too.  Indeed,  I  love  you  now."  And  she  clasped  the 
youiiiT  Kirl  in  her  arms. 

"Then  you  will  help  me  to  find  her?"  pleaded  Hen- 
riette. 

"  Help  you  !  "exclaimed  the  countess,  in  excitement, 
"  All  Paris  shall  be  searched  from  end  to  end. — But, 
gracious  Heaven,  she  is  blinil !  How  is  that,  and  hosv 
did  you  lose  her?     Tell  me  all." 

At  this  moment  a  low,  sad,  sweet  voice  could  be 
heard  in  the  street,  and  so  s'ranijely  familiar  did  the 
voice  sound  to  Henriette,  that  she  could  hardly  con- 
tinue her  story. 

"Yes,  madam,  it  was — one  eveninir " 

"Go  on,  my  cbiM."  sai<i  the  countess,  as  Henriette 
paused  and  listened  anxiously. 

"About — abut  two  years  aj^o " 

AL'aiii  the  voice  was  heard,  and  again  Henriette's 
agitation  became  most  intense. 

"Two  years  ago,  well  !  "  repeated  the  countess,  won- 
dering at  the  young  girl's  hesitation. 

"  Yes — two'years  ago — Louise — was — there "' 

"Henriette  "could  not  talk  ;  it  seemed  that  she  mitst 
go  to  the  win(fbw.  ami  vet  it  would  not  do  to  orteiid 
the  lady  who  had  it  in  tier  power  to  save  her  sister. 

"  Goon,"  said  the  countess,  looking  at  Henriette  in 
astonishment.  She  hail  heani  the  voice;  but  it  was 
only  that  of  a  street  beggar,  and  could  not  interest 
her. 

"  She — was  then  fourteen — we  were  playing  togetli 

er  o"ne  evening — when '' 

Henriette  could  proceed  i:o  further. 
The  voice  had  approached  nearer,  and  could  now  bo 
heard  veiy  dis;incily. 

Henriette  had  recognized  the  voice  of  her  sister — her 
sister  who  had  been  lost  to  her  so  long,  and  she  gave 
utterance  to  a  low  scream. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  ihe  countess  in  alarm 
'•Hush!   listen  !"' exclaimed  the  voung  girl. 
Louise's  soiiiT  could  now  lie  heard  ]dainly. 
"  I  think  I  remember  that  song,"  said   ihe  C(unites3 
alf  to  herself. 

It  is   she,   madam!  it  is  she!"  exclaimed   Heiiii- 
ette  runnini,'  to  the  winiiow  ami  bioking  out. 

At  this  momi'iit  Louise's  plaintive  voice  could  be 
heard  cailinif  in  a  tone  of  despair: 

'•  Heiiiieliel   Henriette!  do  you  hear  me  ?" 
"Louise,  I  am   cfuni   g,    I   am    comim;, '    screamed 
Henriette  in  reply,  as  she  rushed  towards  thedoor, 

'■  It  is  I,  Louise,  vour  sister."  answered  the  voice  of 
the  poor  street  sinirer.  and  then  her  voice  ended  a  wail 
as  though  cruel  hands  wereclasping  her  by  the  throat 
to  prevent  her  speaking. 

'  Come  1 "  screamed  Henriette,   as  she  opened  the 
he  i  door. 

bis;      But  her  exit  was  barred  by  a  troop  of  guards,  wi'li 
I  the  Count  de  Linieres  at  their  hea<l,  who  were  just  eti- 
terini;  the  chamber,  and  one  of   them  graspeil    Henri- 
ette firmly,  thus  preventing  her  from  going  to  her  sis- 
t»j's  aid. 

The  agony  of  the  poor  girl  who  had  seen  her  sister 
so  near  :  l>ut  who  was  prevented  Irom  going  to  1. -r, 
m.iy  be  imagined  but  not  wri'"'  " 


y'et 


lild. 


32 


THE  TWO  ©RPHANS. 


She  had  t«  the  same  instant  found  and  lost  her. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WITHOUT  PITY. 

For  several  moments  Henriette  could  not  under- 
stand why  slie  was  prevented  from  going  out. 

She  knew  that  Louise  was  at  that  moment  in  the 
street  below.  Slie  had  seen  that  sister  for  whom  she 
had  searched  so  long,  and  just  at  tlie  moment  wiien  she 
could  clasp  her  in  her  aims  once  more,  she  found  lier- 
Belf  prevented  by  a  guard  of  armed  men. 

In  her  frenzy  she  struggled  with  the  stalwart  men, 
thinking  that  she  might  force  a  passage  and  regain  the 
fitieet  in  time  to  meet  her  loved  sister. 

The  countess  sank  half-fainting  into  a  chair  as  she 
Bavv  her  husband  enter  upon  an  eriand  which  she  could 
only  guess  concerned  her,  and  she  at  once  coiijectuied 
that  the  Count  de  Linieres  had  discovered  lier  secret 
which  for  so  many  years  she  had  guarded. 

"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  do  not  stop  me!"  exclaim 
ed   Henriette,   as  she   saw  how   useless  her  struggles 
■were. 

The  men  looked  at  the  count  as  if  to  ask  for  orders 
and  he,  rightly  interpreting  their  looks,  said  in  a  cold, 
stern  voice  : 

'■  Do  your  duty." 

In  a  moment  more  Heniiette  was  seized  firmly  by 
two  of  the  guards,  who  awaited  De  Liniere's  orders 
to  carry  her  away. 

"In  the  name  of  heaven  let  me  go,"  implored  the 
poor  girl  turning  towards  the  count,  "  I  tell  you  I  must 
go  to  her,  it  is  she,  do  you  not  hear  ?  Her  voice  grows 
fainter.  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake  have  pity,  let  me  go, 
or  I  shall  lose  her  again." 

"Take  this  girl  to  Salpetriere  ! "  exclaimed  the 
•count,  who  was  not  moved  from  his  puipose  by  Heuri- 
ette's  passionate  pleadings. 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  implored  the  poor  girl  us  the  rough 
Boldiers  forced  her  away. 

The  countess  seemed  to  recover  a  port'on  of  her  self- 
possession  a?  Henriette  was  forced  away.  She  under- 
stood now  that  she  must  rescue  Louise  before  it  was 
too  late,  and  she  rushed  towards  the  door;  but  her 
husband  barred  the  passage. 

"  At  least  let  me  go.  I  must  go,"  she  exclaimed, 
excitedly. 

"  You  will  remain  where  you  are,  madam,"  said 
the  count,  taking  her  almost  roughly  by  the  arm. 
"You  have  not  yet  told  me  what  brought  you  here." 

"Monsieur,  I  will  later,"  frantically' exclaimed  the 
poor  woman,  almost  beside  herself  with  anxiety.     "I 

will  tell  you  all ;  but  now  let  me  go  before  she " 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  madam?  "was  the 
Stem  interruption. 

"  Of  whom  ?  "  almost  shrieked  the  countess.  "  Why, 

of — of — my " 

The  poor  woman  could  say  no  more.  In  her  excite- 
ment she  had  almost  said,  "  my  child  ;"  but  she  saw 
the  count's  stern,  angry  gaze  fixed  upon  her,  and 
fihe  sank  back  in  her  chair  in  a  dead  swoon. 

Count  de  Linieres  gave  a  hard,  cold  look  at  his  wife, 
■without  attemptnig  to  aid  her,  and  then  turning,  left 
tlie  room. 

As  he  reached  the  street,  he  lieard  a  sad,  sweet 
voice  singing  in  the  distance  ;  but  to  him  it  meant 
nothing,  save  the  song  of  a  street-beggar,  and  he  paid 
no  attention  to  it. 

To  two  would  it  have  .spoken  in  tones  of  deepest 
misery  had  tliev  heard  it ;  but  one  was  on  her  way  to 
Salpetriere,  and  the  other,  in  that  attic-ropm  inicou- 
ficious  of  all  that  was  passing  around  her. 


■I 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

PRISON     LIFE. 

We  have  for  a  time,  lost  sight  of  Marianne  Van- 
thier,  Mie   poor  outcast,    whom  we  saw  in   the   third 


chapter,  <ind  now  as  we  go  to  the  prison  of  La  Sal- 
petriere, in  which  Henriette  is  confined,  we  see  her 
again, 

Marianne,  the  prisoner,  is  ditferent  from  Marianne 
the  outcast.  Prison  life  has  enabled  lier  to  exercise 
all  that  was  good  in  her  nature,  without  giving  any 
opportunity  for  the  use  of  those  traits  which  were 
perverted  by  the  ruffian,  Jacques. 

During  her  imprisonment  she  Jias  won  the  hearts  of 
her  keepers  and  fellow  jnisoners,  and  all  regard  hei 
with  love.  Indeed,  so  exemplary  has  been  her  life 
tor  the  past  three  months  that  Sisier  Genevieve,  the 
matron,  has  used  every  endeavor  to  procure  her  par- 
don. 

Before  we  again  speak  of  the  principal  character  of 
our  story,  a  glimpse  of  the  life  of  the  inmate  of  La 
Salpetriere  may  not  prove  uninteresting. 

In  those  days,  no  work  was  furnished  the  unhappy 
prisoner,  and  day  after  day  the  weary  monotony  of 
cell  and  court -yard,  was"  only  _  broken  by  the  re- 
ligious teachings  of  the  good  sisters  who  weie  in 
charge  of  the  place,  or  a  conversation  with  each  other 
in  which  the  probable  term  of  their  imprisonment 
was  the  principal  topic. 

It  is  during  a  similiar  conversation  that  we  enter  the 
courtyard  of  the  prison  and  find  Marianne  with  some 
light 'work  that  has  been  given,  by  lequst,  to  her, 
talking  and  trying  to  cheer  several  others,  who  are 
dragging  out  the  weary  term  for  which  they  are  con- 
fined. 

One  of  the  women  is  seated  a  little  apart  from  the 
rest,  weeping  over  her  liard  lot,  and  it  is  to  her  that 
Marianne  addresses  herself.  \^j| 

"  Do  not  grieve  so,  Florette,"  she  says,  soothingly.       ■ " 

"Oh,  I  can  never  live  such  a  life  its  this,"  replied 
the  poor  girl,  giving  way  anew  to  her  giief. 

"  I'rv  to  work,  it  will  make  vou  forget  vour  trou- 
bles." *   . 

"  1  can't  work.  I  don't  know  how.  I  have  never 
had  any  harder  work  to  do  than  to  amuse  myself.'" 

'•  That  would  be  precious  hard  work  in  this  place,'*' 
remarked  another,  who  had  passed  several  years  of  the 
dreary  inaction  of  prison  life. 

"  Our  paths  in  life  have  been  very  different,"  said 
Marianne,  with  a  sigh,  as  she  thought  of  her  own  hard 
life.  "  I  was  compelled  to  work  for  a  uian  who  beat 
me  and  forced  me  to  become  a  thief." 

"Scores  of  admirers  crowded  around  me,  willing  to 
ruin  themselves  for  my  amusement,"  said  Fiorette, 
drying  her  eyes  and  speaking  in  a  vivacious  manner 
as'she  thought  of  her  past  triumphs. 

"And  it  all  comes  to  a  piisoii,  and  eatir.g  gruel  svith 
a  wooden  spoon,"  said  Julie,  the  one  who  had  passed 
BO  many  yeais  in  the  prison. 

"But  you  get  accustomed  to  that,''  said  Marianne, 
in  a  quiet,  resigned  tone. 

"  But  it  does  not  end  there,"  persisted  Julie  :  "  i*'^* 
day  we  shall  be  treated  as  those  poor  creatnres  v;^^;^ .  ^ 
yesterday  :  hurried  off  with  a  guard  of  soldiers  to^eee 
us  safe  on  our  way  to  exile." 

'  And  a  jeering  "crowd  iuaulting  and  maltreating  us," 
added  Florette. 

"  Does  the  idea  of  exile  frighten  youl"  asked  Mar- 
ianne. 

"  Who  would  not  be  frightened  at  the  idea  of  a  two 
month's  voyage  in  the  vilest  company,  anil  at  the  end 
of  it  to  be  landed  in  a  wild  counJ*i^replied  Julie, 
with  a  great  show  of  feeling. 

"  What  will  you  do  if  they  send  you  away?"  asked 
Florette  of  Marianne. 

"I  shall  try  to  be  resigned.  Porhiips  I  shall  find 
some  satisfaction  in  being  sent  away  out  of  tlie  reach 
ot  temptation.     One  can  find  plenty  of  work  there." 

"  They  say  that  women  are  scarce  out  Iheie  in  Loui- 
siana," said  Julie  complacently.  "Maybe  1  shall  find 
a  husband,  and  revenge  myself  in  that  way." 

"You  may  not  be  sent  into  exile,"  replied  Marianne, 
hopefully.  "  Show  yourself  repentant  and  the  eistet 
superior  will  interest,  herself  in  your  behalf."' 

Just  at  this  time-  Sisier  Genevieve  appeared  at  the 


-*tii 


TliH  TWO  ORPHANS. 


33 


door  of  the  pnson,  and  all  looked  towards  her  in  a 
manner  that  plainly  showed  how  much  love  they  en- 
tertained for  her. 

"  She  has  been  attending  the   sick,  now   she  comes 
'  here  to  console  the  iitliicted,"  said  Marianne  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Well,  for  so  go<;>d  a  woman,  she  is  the  meekest  1 
:'  ever  saw,"  added  Julie  in  a  decided  tone.  , 

"  What  do  1  not  owe  her  ?  "  continned  MariAnne. 
[""Her  gentle  words  first  awakened  feelings  in  my 
heart  that  I  thought  long  since  dead.  When  I  see  those 
pure  and  hnmlde  women,  who  have  nothing  but  virtues 
to  confess,  daily  kneeling  in  prayer,  what  can  1  e.xpeci 
— I  who  am  so  guilty." 

"And  I  too,"  said'Florette. 

'■  But  they  have  taught  ihe  that  I  can  atone  for  the 

past,"  said  Marianne,  siill  iiir  a  half-musing  tone;  "that 

every  good  deed  will  efface  a  fault  committed.'' 

;      "I  am  afraid  I  couldn't  live  long  enough  to  balance 

:■  the  accourit,"  said  Julie  in  a  voice  which  expressed  both 

jest  and  sadness. 

The  conver.sation  was  interrnpted  by  the  entrance 
of  the  physician  of  the  prison,  who  was  none  othei' 
than  the  same  charitable  doctor  whom  we  saw  at  the 
Place  St.  Sulpiee,''and  who^  would  have  benefitted  Lou- 
ise so  greatly  liad'ltiB  been  Allowed  to  do  so. 

As  he  entered.  Sister  Genevieve  went  eagerly  to- 
wards him,  displaying  a  nervousness  that  was  very 
strange. 

"Ah,  doctor,  I  have  been  waiting  impatiently  lor 
yon,"  she  said  in  a  marvellously  sweet  voice. 

"  I  am  not  late,  I  believe,"  replied  the  physician,  as 
he  glanced  at  his  watch  to  assiu-e  himself  that  he  was 
punctual  to  the  time  appointed. 

"  No,"  answered  the  sister  ;  "  but  von  led  me  to  hope 
that  when  you  came  to-day  von  wou"ld  bring  me " 

"Good  news,"  added  the  doctor  while  a  smile  of  sat- 
isf.tction  and  pleasure  passed  over  his  face.  "  Well,  I 
have  done  everything  in  my  power.  I  have  t=pokenof 
the  interest  you  take  in  this  nnforlnnate  woman  ;  of 
hersiuceie  repentance,  and  I  even  went  so  far  as  to 
add  a  few  good  qualities  on  my  own  account." 

'•  You  did  wrong,  doctor,"  said  the  good  sister,  in  a 
tone  which  showed  plainly  that  she  was  hurt  at  any 
subterfuge  having  been  used,  even  though  it  Wiis  done 
to  effect  a  purpose  which  she  ha<i  very  much  to  heart. 
"There  is  no  cause  sacred  enough  to  justify  the  viola- 
tion of  thetrntli.' 

"You  will  thank  me,  nevertheless,  sister,"  replied 
the  doctor. 

•'Then  yon  have  succeeded?"  was  the  eager  ques- 
tion. 

"  Completely." 

"  Heaven  be  praised,"  said  Sister  Genevieve  pionely, 

Tihe  clasped    her  hands,  and   breathed   a   prayer  at' 
wvnkfulness.     Then    turning  to    Marianne,  she   said  : 
f^irtji'.nanne,  come   here,  my   child.     Here  is  our  good 
doctor,  who  will  tell   you  what  he  has  done  for  you." 

"ITor  meV  asked  the  surprised   gitl   as  she   went 
slowly  towards  them. 
I      ''  You  must  thank  Sister  Genevieve,  not  me,"  said 
the  physician.     "  Touched  by  your  repentance,  she  has 
solicited  and  obtained  your  pardon  and  release." 

For  an  instant  Marianne  aid  not  understand  all  that 
the  doctor's  words  meant ;  but  when  it  Hashed  upon 
her  mind  that  she  was  free  ;  that  now,  thanks  to  the 
disinterested  kindness  of  the  sister,  she  was  no  longera 
prisoner  ;  no  longer  in  danger  of  being  sent  into  exile, 
she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  before  Sister  Gene- 
vieve, and  clasping  her  hand,  rained  kisses  and  tears 
upon  it  in  the  lullness  of  her  gratitude. 

"  My  benefactress  !  My  mother  ! "  she  exclaimed,  in 
rt  voice  almost  choked  with  emotion. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Sister  Genevieve  quickly.  "It  was 
he  who  obtained  it  for  you." 

She  pointed  to  the  doctor,  who  was  standing  near, 
wipitn,'away  the  tears  wliicli  filled  his  eyes  at  such  an 
exhibition  of  gratitude  as  Marianne  furnished. 

"No,"  lie  saiii  gravely,  "your  release  is  granled  to 
the  good   Sister   Genevieve.    To  that  good   and  noble 


woman,  who.  born  within  the  walls  of  La  Salpetriere, 
has  never  consented  to  cross  its  tnreshold;  who  has 
made  this  prison  her  country,  and  its  unfortunate  in- 
mates her  family  ;  who  brings  to  you  all  her  daily 
blessing  of  consolation  and  prayer,  so  that  the  vilest 
here  respect  and  love  her '' 

The  doctor  stopped  abruptly ;  because  on  lookmg 
around  upon  the  faces  of  the  Inmates  who  had  gather- 
ed near  them,  he  saw  their  cheeks  bedewed  with 
tears — tears  of  gratitude  and  love  for  the  pure  wo- 
man who  was  devoting  her  life  to  their  welfare,  and 
as  his  own  eyes  were  not  free  from  moisture,  he 
thought  it  time  to  bring  his  remarks  to  a  close. 

Marianne  still  held  ilie  good  sister's  hand,  and  gazed 
up  into  her  face  as  though  she  would  impress  those 
calm  and  placid  features  upon  her  heart  indelibly. 

They  stood  around  the  sister,  silent  and  tearful, 
when  the  prison  bell  was  rung  loud  and  sharp. 

It  was  the  signal  for  the  prisoners  to  retire  to  their 
cells,  and  they  began  to  move  towards  their  narrow, 
cheerless  rooms. 

"  It  is  time  to  go  in,  "  said  Sister  Genevieve,  cheer- 
fully, and  then  taking  Marianne's  face  between  her 
hands,  she  imprinted  a  loving  kiss  upon  her  forehead, 
and  said,  gravely : 

"  This  evening  you  will  be  free.  Do  not  forget  that 
I  am  responsible  for  yon.  Society  has  sent  me  a 
guilty  woman ;  I  return  it  a  repentant  one,  1  hope, 
Marianne." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


PICARD   IN   A   NEW    ROLK. 


Although  Henriette-  had  been  in  La  Salpetriere 
twenty-four  hours  when  the  events  narrated  in  our 
lasi  chapter  occurred,  Marianne  had  not  seen  her  for 
the  reason  that  the  poor  orphan  had  been  ill. 

Her  suffering's  had  brought  on  a  severe  attack  of 
sickness,  and,  happily  for  the  poor  girl,  she  had  been 
unconscious,  not  even  knowing  that  she  was  in  a 
prison. 

Instead  of  being  confined  in  a  cell  she  was  taken  to 
the  prison  hospital,  and  had  just  escaped  from  her  keep 
er«,  and  CJime  running   into   the  courtyard  as    Sister 
Genevieve  spoke  the  words  to  Marianne  which  closes 
our  last  chapter. 

With  her  hair  niibound,  a  wild  light  in  her  eyes,  and 
a  hectic  Hush  upon  her  cheeks,  she  rushed  to  the  sister 
and  knell  before  her. 

Although  the  appearance  of  the  young  girl  was  en- 
tirely different  from  what  it  was  when  Marianne  last 
saw  her,  she  knew  her  aluiost  imnieiiiately. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  is  it  possible  i  "  she  exclaimed  ia 
a  tone  of  surprise,  of  almost  fright. 

"  Oh,  madam,"  cried  Henriette,  in  imploring  accents, 
"  if  you  are  the  mistress  here,  have  pity  on  me,  and 
order  them  to  set  mo  free.     I  ask  you  on  my  knees." 

The  voice  of  the  young  girl  convinced  Marianne  that 
she  was  indeed  none  other  than  one  of  the  two  who 
so  generously  befriended  her  the  night  when  she  gave 
herself  up  to  the  police. 

"  Be  calm,  my  child,"  said  Sister  Genevieve,  ten- 
terly,  as  she  stroked  Heniiette's  long  hair  with  a  gen- 
tle, "loving  touch.     "You  are  ill." 

"  Certainly  vou  are,"  added  the  doctor,  going  to- 
svards  her.  ''Why  have  you  left  your  bed  without 
my  permission  V 

"  Oh,  monsieur,"  said  the  poor  girl,  turning  towards 
the  gentle  voiced,  pleasant-faced  man  who  spoke  so 
kinilly   '  have  you  attended  me  in  inj  illness  ?  "  _ 

"  Yes,  yes,  and   I  cannot    permit   you  to  act  in  this 


wav. 


II 


"'But,  monsieur,  I  am  well   now,"  said   Henriette, 

going  towards  the  doctor.     "  Thanks  to  your  care,  I 

!  am  well  again.     They  left  me  alone  for  a  few  momenta 

and  I  arose  and  dressed  myself     Now  that  you  see  I 


M 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


am  quite  well,  you  will  tell  them  to  let,  me  go,  will  yon 
not?" 

The  doctor  gazed  at  lier  compassionately  for  a  mo- 
ment bt.'fore  answering. 

'•  That  is  impossible.  To  release  you  from  this 
place  requites  a  far  greater  power  than  mine." 

••  This  place  1  "  asked  the  young  girl  in  surprise. 
"  Why,  what  is  it  1  Is  it  not  a'liospital  ?"' 

'' A  hospital  and  a  prison,"  replied  tlie  physician, 
jjravely. 

"  A  prison  ! "  exclaiuied  Henriette,  iu  terror,  and 
striving  to  remember  how  she  came  lobe  ia  such  a 
place. 

At  last  the  events  of  the  past  few  houis  cauie  back 
to  her  mind,  until  graiiii.illy  .she  u.iderst<iod  all 

"Ah,  I  remember,"  she  said  at  length.  '•  Yes,  I  re- 
member the  soldiers  who  drajrged  me  hither,  and  him 
vrho  commanded  tliem.  Oh,  my  God,  what  have  I 
done  to  l)e  crushed  like  this  !" 

And  falling  prone  upon  the  earth,  tlie  poor  stricken 
one  wept  scalding  tears  of  anguish. 

She  knew  now  that  her  sister  was  iu  the  power  of 
unscrupulous  wretches,  and  her  cup  ol  sorrow  seemed 
to  be  running;  over  with  the  knowledge  that  she  was 
nnable  to  render  her  poor  blind  sister  any  assistance, 
even  if  she  h.id  known  exactly  where  she  was  at  that 
moment. 

For  an  instant  the  three  gazed  iu  pity  at  the  grief- 
stricken  girl  before  them,  and  then  turning  away  to 
hide  liis  tears,  the  doctor  said  : 

"  Sifeter,  this  is  not  a  case  lor  my  care.  You  must 
be  the  physician  here." 

"  1  have  seen  many  .guilty  women,"  said  Sister  Gen- 
evieve: "but  this  one " 

"  Is  not  guilty,  sister,"'  interrupted  Marianne  quickly. 

"  Do  you  know  her?" 

"  When  I  came  here,"  said  Marianne,  "  I  told  you 
that  on  that  very  day,  overwhelmed  with  despau',  1 
liad  attempted  to  destroy  myself." 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

"  And  how  1  had  l)een  prevented  from  adding 
that  ciinie  to  my  many  sins  by  two  young  girls,  an- 
gels of  virtue  and  goodness.     This  is  one  of  them." 

"How  is  it  possible  that  she  should  be  here?"  ask- 
ed Sister  Genevieve,  half  to  herself. 

"Misfortune  may  have  overtaken  her,  but  I  am  sure 
Ihat  vice  has  never  sullied  her  life,"  replied  Marianne, 
with  great  assui'ance. 

The  good  sister  raised  Henriette  from  the  ground 
and  attempted  to  8<>()the  her  jrrief. 

"  Courage,  my  child,  look  up,"  she  said  kindly. 

Henriette  made  no  sign  of  recognition,  and  Mari- 
anne went  more  closely  to  lier. 

"  Look  at  me,  mademoiselle.  Do  you  not  re- 
member the  woman  who  wished  to  drown  herself?" 

"You — you,"  faltered  the  ])Oor  girl,  striving  to  re- 
ca'.l  the  events  which  had  passed,  and  vrhich,  in  her 
Biiaery,  seemed  to  have  occurred  years  before,  instead 
of  only  a  few  weeks,  "Ah,  yes,  I  remember  you  too 
veil!"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  events  of  that  fatal  night 
when  she  was  separated  from  her  sister,  came  upon 
her  like  some  pestilence-laden  blast  of  air.  "Alas! 
•we  were  together  then — that  was  before  they  dragged 
me  away  from  her.     You  saw  her — my  poor  sister.'' 

"I  tofd  madam  that  you  were  as  pure  as  an  angeh" 

"Yes,  madam,  I  am  innocent,"  exclaimed  Henriette, 
earnestly,  and  iu  a  manner  that  could  not  but  carry 
conviction  with  it.  "I  call  Heaven  to  witness,  I 
Bwear " 

"  Do  not  swear,  daughter,"  said  Sist,er  Genevieve,  iu 
a  mildly  reproving  voice  "  I  believe  you  would  not 
be  guilty  of  the  shameful  sin  of  falsehood." 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Henriette,  quickly. 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  a  man  had 
approached  the  pi-rson  gates,  and  after  showinj;  the 
sister  in  charge,  a  paper  signed  by  the  Minister  of  Po- 
lice, giving  himpermission  to  visit  the  prison,  was  ad- 
mitted, and  proceeded  directly  to  Sister  Geneviere. 

The  person  who  just  entered  was  our  old  friend, 
Picard  the  magnificent. 


"  By  whose  orders  were  you  sent  here?  "  asked  t' 
sister,  as  she  looked  earnestly  at  tlie  rather  singuli 
appearing  j-onng  man. 

■'  By  order  of  the  Count  de  Linieres,  madam.' 

"  Who  are  you,  sir?"  she  asked,  rather  surprised  af 
the  messenger  the  count  had  sent.  \ 

"  First  valet  de-chambre  to  his  excellency,  the   mi: 
ister  of  police,"  replieii  Picard,  laying  his  hand   on   lii 
heait  iu   an  affected  manner,  and   making  a  very    lot 
bow. 

'■  Tlien  it  isby  his  orders,"  said  the  usually  ver; 
fnild  sister,  in  a  stern  voice,  "  that  this  poor  chi 
is " 

"Alas,  madam,''  interrupted  Picard,  "the  liono^ 
of  an  illustrious  house  must  be  protected." 

"You  are  a  witness  tliat  I  refused  the  liand  of  the 
chevalier,"  said  Henriette  passionately,  and  appealing 
to  the  valet  with  all  the  force  of  her  gentle  nature. 

"Is  that  so,  monsieur?  "  asked  Sistei-  Genevieve. 

"That  is  true,  I  am  compelled  to  admit  it,"  replied 
Picard  with  another,  and  a  lower  bow. 

"  Madam,  I  told  you  she  was  innocent,"  said  Mari- 
anne, overjoyed  at  this  proof  of  Henriette's  guiltles* 
ness. 

"  If  madam  the  Superior  will  allow  me  to  inform  the 
young  lady  of  the  further  wishes  of  his  excellency,  the 
minister  of  police,  I  think  I  can  make  her  understand," 
said  Picard  seeing  that  this  interview  was  not  tending; 
to  give  those  around  him  that  exalted  idea  of  his  dig- 
nity which  he  was  ever  careful  to  preserve,  and  wiatl- 
iugto  terminate  the  interview  as  soon  as  possible.        ; 

"  You  may  do  so,"  said  the  sister  gravely.  Theq' 
turning  to  Henriette  and  kissing  her,  sliesaid  :  "  Hav<f 
courage,  my  child,  and  trust  in  Heaven." 

As  the  Sister  Superior  left  the  courtyard  and  enter- 
ed the  hospital  Marianne  pi-essed  close  to  Henriette 
and  %vhis[)ered  : 

"  Courage,  coui-age,  mademoiselle,"  and  then  fol- 
lowed Sister  Genevieve. 

"  We  are  alone,"  said  Henriette  as  soon  as  Marianne 
had  gone.  "What  new  misery  do  you  bring  me,  you 
whom  I  thought  devoted  to  your  master,  and  yet  come 
here  to  betray  him  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  mademoiselle,"  said  Picard,  growing 
confused,  strange  to  say,  at  the  words  of  tlie  young 
girl,  "  that  is  too  bad,  to  have  you  reproach  nie  too. 
Because  the  master  1  deceive  is  the  minister  of  po- 
lice." 

"  But  Monsieur  de  Vaudrey — what  of  him  ?  " 

"  He  refused  to  obey  his  uncle — and--and  yesterday 
he  was  sent  to  the  Bastile." 

"  He  too,  is  a  prisoner  then  ? ''  exclaimed  Henriette 
in  despair.  The  chevalier  was  the  only  one  to  whom 
she  could  look  for  assistance  in  escaping  from  the  dread- 
ful place  in  which  she  was  confined,  and  now  that  8h| 
knew  that  he  was  unable  to  assist  lier,  all  ho''''^  '  • 
and  she  could  see  no  way  of  escape  from  the  '^ 
that  were  being  drawn  so  closely  around  her. 

"Yes,  he  is  in  the  Bastile,"'  said  Picard  in  a  mourn- 
ful tone.  "  He  made  me  swear  to  come  to  this  prison, 
and  tell  you  that  if  at  the  worst  they  decided  to  send 
you  into  exile  to  Louisiana " 

'Exile!  Louisiana!  Why  that  would  be  death  !  " 
exclaimed  the  poor  girl  in  distress. 

"  Wait  a  little,  mademoiselle,"  said  Picard  confident- 
ly. '  if  my  pretended  master  comes  to  that  decision  he 
will  release  my  real  master  from  the  Bastile,  and  once 
he  gets  out  of  there,  why  off  he  goes,  followed  by  your 
hunib  e  servant.  We  overtake  the  guard  having  yon 
in  charge,  with  the  gold,  with  which  we  will  take  ear«| 
to  be  i)iovided,  my  real  master  will  bribe  the  servant! 
of  my  other  master,  and  if  they  should  be  incorruptible 
— that  is,  if  we  have  not  money  enough  with  us  to  bu"' 
them,  why  then  we  will  share  your  exile,  and  we  wJi 
be  happy  iu  spite  of  the  treadierv  of  Div  other  mai 
ter." 

In  order  that  the  reader  may  fnllv  understand  Pi 
ard's  speech,  we  will  briefly  state  how  it  wai«  th 
while  appearing  at   the  piison  as  the  Count    de  Li 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


35 


iere's  viilet,  he  was  still  obeying  the  chevalier's  c.om- 
maiida. 

When  Picard  and  his  master  left  Ileiiriette's  cham- 
ber, the  day  on  which  she  was  arrested,  the  valet's 
sympathies  were  aroused  in  her  cause  and  as  soon  as 
tae  chevalier  was  sent,  to  the  Bastiie,  Picard  proposed 
to  him  that  it  would  be  better  if  he  (Picard,)  should 
again  enter  the  service  of  the  miniatei'  of  police;  for, 
by  that  means  lie  would  be  enabled  to  be  of»some  ser- 
vice both  to  the  clievalier,  wiiom  he  consideied  to  be 
his  real  master,  and  to  Henriette. 

When  Picard  spoke  of  their  yet  being  liappy  again, 
Henrieite  said  sadly: 

"  You  speaH  to  me  of  happiness.  But  Louise,  my 
darliiij;  sister,  who  will  searcli  for  her?  " 

"Where  am  I?"  aslced  Picard  with  a  show  of 
woundeil  vanity.  "  Do  I  count  for  nothing?  Do  you 
suppose  that  a  member  of  the  secret  police  of  his  ex- 
cellency, the  minister,  is  going  to  fold  his  arms  quietlv  ? 
No,  inaeed.  Come,  come,  midemoiselle,  don't  worry 
yoar.ielf  I  will  arrange  everything.  Then  if  they 
want  my  head  they  can  come  and  take  it.  I  am 
ready." 

And  Picard  struck  an  attitude  of  courage  and  self- 
sacrifice. 

Just  at  this  moment,  as  if  summoned  by  the  valet's 
boasting  words,  an  officer,  attended  by  a  file  of  soldiers, 
presented  himself  af  the  gate,  and  after  showing  liis 
order  for  admissiou,  entered. 

Picard  was  so  engrossed  by  his  bold  defiance  to  the 
minister  of  police  that  he  did  not  notice  anything  around 
him,  and  therefore  he  did  not  see  the  guards,  until  he 
heard  an  exclamation  of  alarm  from  Henriette. 
"Gn:)d  Heavens!  Look  there!" 
Surprised  l)y  her  cry,  Picard  looked  in  the  direction 
designated  by  her  extended  finger,  and  as  he  saw  the 
soldiers  he  lost  all  outward  signs  of  bravery, 

•'  Good  gracious,  have  they  taken  me  at  my  word  ?  " 
he  iisked  in  affright,  an!  at  the  same  time  patting  his 
h;in  I  ou  his  head  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  it  still 
rested  securely  upon  his  shoulders. 
'  Hearing  the  noise  of  the  opening  gate.  Sister  Gene- 
vieve, accompanied  by  Marianne  and  the  doctor,  came 
out  of  the  hospital,  aiid  seeintr  her,  the  officer  of  the 
guard  advanced,  and  after  m;iking  a  low  salute,  said: 

'■  Sister  S  iperioi',  I  have  the  honor  to  hand  you  the 
list  of  prisoners,  who  are  condemned  to  exile,  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  order  the  prisoners  to  be  assembled 
here,  we  can  proceed  to  identify  them." 

"  Yoi  may  do  so,  mousieur,"'said  Sister  Genevieve. 
"  I  will  follow  you." 

Several  times  she  attempted  to  open  and  read  the 
fatal  list  which  she  held  in  her  hands,  and  each  'iaie 
she  was  prevented  by  the  intensity  of  fier  feelings. 

At  last,  with   an   eflFort,  she  opened    the   paper,  and 
gave  one  quick  glance  at  the  names  it  contamea.   Then 
%ith  a  suppressed  cry  she  fixed  her  eyes  ou  Henriette 
^Sfl-  *•,!  unutterably  saa  look. 

"Madam,"  cried  the  poor  girl,  warned  bv  that  look 
that  the  papei  boded  no  good  to  her.  "Why  do  you 
look  at  me  so?  answer  me,  for  pity's  sake;  Gut  have 
mercy." 

'•  All,  my  poor  child,"  sighed  the  sister,  but  she 
could  say  no  more,  for  Henriette's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her  face  in  the  most  beseeching  manner. 

Tiie  few  words  which  Sister  Genevieve  had  uttered, 
were  enough  to  show  the  poor  orphan  that  the  worst 
which  could  be  done  by  the  minister  was  now  to  be 
executed  against  her. 

She  had  clung  to  the  hope  that  the  chevalier  might 
assist  her  in  her  hour  of  trial,  and  Picard's  words  had 
strengthened  that  belief;  but  she  saw  now  that  all 
hope  was  vain.  Tiie  pitying  looks  cast  upon  her  by 
Sister  Genevieve,  Marianne  and  the  doctor,  spoke 
her  doom  only  too  plainly.  Tiiere  was  no  hope  for 
her.  She  must  go  into  exile,  an!  all  hope  of  ever 
seeing  her  blind  sister  was  at  an  end. 

As  these  thoughts  flashed  over  her,  her  strength 
gave  way,  and  again  she  sank  helplessly  upon  the 
ground,  murmuring  : 


"Alas  !  I  am  condemed  I  I  am  lost,  lost  !" 


CHAPTER  XXni. 

GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  ONE  THAN  THIS. 

Henriette's  cry  of  despair  as  she  understood  that 
she  was  condemned  to  exile,  rang  through  the  corri- 
dors of  the  prison,  causing  all  who  heard  it  to  shudder 
involuntarily. 

In  the  intensity  of  her  grief,  which  had  caused  the 
cry,  it  sounded  more  like  the  wail  of  a  strong  man  in 
his  agony,  rather  than  that  of  ayoung  girl. 

Picard  evinced  the  greatest  cuusteraation. 
tile  and  inform  the  chevalier." 

Henriette  turned  to  Marianne,  who  was  standing 
near  in  the  hopes  that  she  might  be  able  to  render 
some  assistance,  she  said  in  a  world-weary   voice  : 

"Ah  !  now  I  can  understand  why  one  "may  wish  to 
die" 

••Do  not  speak  so,  mademoiselle,"  entreated  Mari- 
anne. "  Remember  the  words  of  liope  you  spoke  to 
me." 

"  If  you  have  a  family,  think  of  them,"  8ai<i  the  good 
doctor,  anxious  to  turn  the  thoughts  of  the  poor  girl  to 
something  beside  her  own  misery. 

"Think of  master,  the  Chevalier,"  said  Picard,  in  a 
tone  which  plainly  said  :  "  Remember  the  plan  which 
we  have  formed   lor  your  escape.'' 

'"Ah,  monsieur,"  said  Henriette  to  the  physician. 
"  Exile  has  no  terrors  for  me.  I  do  not  weep  for  my 
own  misfortunes.". 

"  She  has  a  sister  of  whom  she  was  the  sole  sup- 
port," explained  Marianne,    "  A  sister  who  is  blind."' 

"  I  had  found  her  at  the  moment  when  they  arrested 
me,"  added  Henriette,  sorrowfully.  "  I  heard  her 
voice.  I  saw  her.  She  was  covered  with  rags,  and 
her  beautiful  golden  hair  fell  in  disorder  on  her  should- 
ers. She  was  being  dragged  along  by  an  horrible  old 
woman  who  I  know  ill-treats  her — boats  her  perhaps, 
and  they  would  not  let  me  go  to  her.  Now  1  have 
lost  her  forever — forever." 

And  again  the  sorely  tried  girl  burst  into  a  flood  of 
bitter  tears,  while  Marianne  supported  the  slight  form 
in  her  arms. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  my  child,"  exclaimed  the  physi- 
cian, as  a  sudden  thought  flashed  over  Lim.  "  I  believe 
I  have  met  that  very  same  girl." 

"  You,    monsieur?  " 
prise. 

'•  Yes,  yes,  a  young  girl  led  by  an  old  woman  who 
calle<i  her  Louise." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  lier  name,"  and  the  young  girl  now 
became  breathless  with  excitement. 

"  I  know  the  old  woman,  too.  She  is  called  La  Fro- 
chard,"  continued  the  doctor,  while  Henriette  listened 
anxionslv  to  everv    word  h«  spoke. 

"  La  Frochard  f"  exclaimed  Picard  quickly.  "An 
old  hag  who  goes  about  whiiiiui;  for  alms  in  the  name 
of  Heaven  and  seven  small  children  ?  Wheredoesshe 
live?" 

Marianne  shuddered. 

She  knew  full  well  what  mercy  any  one  might  ex- 
pect at  the  hands  of  the  Frochards,  and  she  resolved 
that  the  blind  girl  should  be  rescued  from  their  vile 
gra«p. 

"She  lives  in  a  hovel  by  the  river  side,"  she  said 
quickly,  and  as  if  it  pained  her  ever  to  be  obliged  to 
spejik  of  the  family.  "  It  was  formerly  used  as  a  boat- 
house  ;  but  has  long  been  occupied  by  thieves,  and  the 
worst  class  of  criminals.  There  is  a  secret  entrance 
from  the  Rue  Noir  ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  find,  and  is  al- 
ways carefully  guarded. " 

•'Never  mind  that,"  said  Picard,  contemptuously, 
"  the  police  of  Paris  can  find  their  secret  entrances; 
if  not  we'll  capture  the  main  one.  1  must  go  to  the 
jj.istile  first,  and  try  to  effect  my  master's  release. 
Tlieu  we  will  go  to  this   boat-honse." 


exclaimed    Henriette,    in  snt  - 


36 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


And  away  Picaid  durted  in  ihe  greatest  haste,  full 
of  the  importance  of  the  task  he  had  undertaken,  and 
resolved  to  aicomplish  it  at  any  cost. 

'•You  are  auie  she  lives  there  V  asked  Heuriette, 
eageilv,  and  forgetting  for  tiie  moment  that  she  was  a 
prisoner,  liurried  towards  the  gate.  '■  Then  we  will 
go  at  once.  Thank  God  that  1  have  found  my  dear 
sister  again." 

As  she  reached  the  gate  she  suddenly  remembered 
her  cruel  position,  and  how  impossible  it  was  for  her 
to  take  a  single  step  towards  liberating  her  sister. 

The  shock  was  a  great  one,  and  she  sank  down 
cowering  and  trembling,  whi'e  she  murmured  in  a 
choked,  stifled  voice: 

'•  Oh,  I  am  to  be  sent  away— away  from  her." 
"No,  no,  mademoiselle  !"   exclaimed   Marianne  pas- 
sionately, as  she  caught  Henriette's  hand,  and  pressed 
it  to  her  lips,  '  you  need  not — you  shall  not  be  sent 
away." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  doctor,  as  soon  as 
he  could  wipe  away  his  tears,  for  Marianne 'svpositive 
assurance  startled  him. 

"  I  need  not  be  sent  away  ! "  repeated  Henriette. 
"  Look  at  these  guards  who  have  been  sent  to  take 
me,  who  wait  for  me,"  and  she  pointed  to  the  soldiers 
who  stood  like  grim  statues,  ranged  along  the  side  of 
the  yard.  And  as  she  looked  upon  their  stern  faces 
that  seemed  never  to  have  known  what  pity  was, 
her  grief  broke  out  anew. 

"  Oh,  Louise,  my  sister,  my  poor  darling,"  she 
wailed,  while  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  as 
if  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  those  who  were  to  force 
her  to  leave  France  and  her  sister,  branded  as  a  fallen 
woman. 

"  I  tell  you  that  you  need  not  go,"  insisted  Mari- 
anne, eagerly. 

"  What  do'  you  mean  was,"  was  the  unhappy  girl's 
question. 

At  this  moment,  the  unfortunate  prisoners  whose 
names  were  on  the  list  of  those  condemned  to  exile, 
entered  the  court-yard,  accompanied  by  the  officer  of 
the  guard.  \ 

The  kind-hearted  Sister  Genevieve,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  inform  the  unhappy  creatures  of  their  hard 
fate,  had  remained  within  the  prison  walls,  as  if  to 
spare  herself  the  pain  of  seeing  the  poor  creatures  as 
they  were  dragged  away. 

lu  order  not  to  be  overheard  by  the  officer,  Maiian- 
ne  went  close  to  the  doctor,  and  whispered  : 

'•Doctor,  have  pity  on  her,  and  consent  to  help 
me." 

Before  she  could  say  more,  or  even  hear  the  physi- 
cian's reply,  the  officer  who  had  been  consulting  his 
list,  said: 

"  I  need  another  prisoner  to  complete  the  list.  Hen- 
riette Gerard  !" 

Henriette  started  as  though  she  had  received  a  blow, 
but  before  she  could  speak,  Marianne  ran  towards  the 
guard,  saying: 

"  Here,  monsieur." 

The  act  took  Henriette  so  comp'etely  by  surprise, 
that  she  could  only  give  utterance  to  a  lowciy,  which 
sounded  more  like  a  groan. 

In  an  instant  the  doctor  had  comprehended  all  that 
Marianne  would  do,  and  although  the  .'sacrifice  was 
greater  than  seemed  possible  for  a  human  being  to 
make,  he  did  not  attempt  to  prevent  it,  but  grasped 
Henriette  by  the  arm  to  prevent  her  from  speaking. 

"  Your  sister's  fate  depends  upon  your  silence  !"  he 
whispered,  and  under  tlie  influence  of  thatmagic  name 
she  was  silent. 

The    officer    motioned  Marianne  to  take  her  place 

with  the  other  prisoners,  but  she  said  imploringly  : 
"Permit  me,  monsieur,  to  bid  her  a  last  farewell." 

He  motioned  an  impatient  consent,  and  Marianne 
crossing  over  to  Henriette,  folded  her  lu  a  last  em- 
brace. 

Now  did  the  poor  orphan  fully  understand  all  that 
the  outcast  had  consented  to  do  for  her,  and  mnch  as 


she  loved  her  sister  she  could  not  accept  the  sacri- 
fice. 

•'No— no,"  she  murmured.  "I  cannot,  I  will  not 
consent." 

"  Hush  !  "  exclaimed  Marianne,  placing  her  hand 
over  her  companion's  mouth.  '•  It  is  not  you  whom  I 
save,  Henriette,  it  is  myself.  If  I  remain,  Jacques 
will  find  me  again,  and  once  m  his  power  I  shoula  ba 
lost.  You  will  remain,  you  will  find  Louise,  and  you 
will  both  be  saved." 

Again  did  the  spell  which  Louise's  name  oast  over 
Henriette  prevent  her  from  protesting  against  the 
fearful  sacrifice  which  was  being  made  for  her,  and 
she  murmured  her  sister's  name  in  a  dazed,  happy 
way. 

'•  Here,  take  this,"  said  Marianne,  as  she  handed  her 
the  paper  which  only  a  short  time  before  she  had  re- 
ceived with  so  many  expressions  of  delight. 

It  was  the  pardon  which  allowed  her  to  go  out  of 
La  Salpetriere  a  free  woman,  and  now  she  was  about 
to  give  it  up  that  Henriette  might  be  saved,  and  of  her 
own  free  will,  sh^  was  about  to  go  into  a  voluntary, 
life-long  exile.      ''  ■' 

''A  greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  he  lay 
down  nis  life  for  his  friend,  '  is  written  in  the  Book; 
but  surely  Marianne's  love  and  gratitude  fur  exceeded 
this,  for  she  was  dooming  herself  to  a  whole  life-time 
of  misery. 

Henriette  could  not  take  the  pardon  so  freely  of- 
fered, and  Marianne  looked  at  the  doctor  as  if  to  im- 
plore him  to  induce  the  poor  girl  to  do  so. 

'•Take  it,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Your  sister's 
fate  depends  upon  it." 

After  some  hesitation,  Henriette  took  the  paper 
which  Marianne  had  thrust  into  her  hand,  and  then 
tiiiiging  her  arms  around  the  woman  who  had  thus 
saved  her,  sobbed  out  her  thanks. 

At  this  most  inopportune  moment,  Sister  Genevieve 
came  slowly  out  of  the  prison,  towards  the  two  weep- 
ing girls. 

•  The  Sister  Superior  !  "  ejaculated  the  physician  ia 
dismay.     "All  is  lost!" 

"  Heaven  would  not  permit  it!"  exclaimed  Henri- 
ette. 

All  felt  that  Marianne's  generous  action  could  not  be 
consummated  ;  for  there  was  no  hope  that  the  good  Sis- 
dter,  who  looked  upon  deception  as  a  heinous  crime 
could  be  persuaded  to  tell  a  falsehood. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  officer  to  the  Sister,  "  will  you 
please  verify  this  list,  and  identify  the  prisoners  who 
are  intended  for  exile." 

Now  indeed  was  all  lost,  since  Sister  Genevieve 
must  identify  each  one. 

In  a  slow  monotonous  voice  the  officer  read  over  the 
name  of  each  one,  and  waited  until  the  Sister  had  de- 
clared that  they  were  among  the  condemned. 

The  name  of  Henriette  Girard  was  the  last  on  tj\e 
list,  and  when  the  officer  pronounced  it,  Ma:janne  raa 
and  knelt  down  at  the  Sister's  feet,   exc'-Jmnig  : 

"Here,  mother!" 

"You  ?  "  exclaimed  the  sisterin  surprise  ;  but  before 
she  could  say  any  more  the  doctor  stood  before  her, 
and  pointing  10  Henriette,  who  was  uttering  a  silent 
prayer,  not  liaiing  to  look  towards  either  of  the  group, 
made  a  most  appealing  gesture. 

"Mother,  mother,  have  pity,"  cried  Marianne  ear- 
nestly, .•"  bless  me  and  let  me  go ;  for  this  exile  will 
purify  a  guilty  fouI,  and  save  an  innocent  one." 

Several  times  did  Sister  Genevieve  attempt  to  speak 
and  each  time  did  her  tongue  refuse  to  do  its  duty. 

Gladly  would  she  have  made  any  sacrifice ;  but  could 
she  tell  a  lie  ? 

"  Well,  Sister  ■?  "  said  the  officer  who  bad  grown 
weary  with  the  singular  delay. 

The  struggle  was  most  intense  ;  but  at  last  she 
placed  her  hands  on  either  side  of  Marianne's  face,  and 
stooping  over  kissed  her  fervently. 

Then  raising  her  eyes  to  Heaven,  as  if  imploring 
I  divine  forgiveness  for  the  eiu  she  was  about  to    com- 


THi:  TWO  OKl^HANS. 


nenrlede  preTent«d  from  going  to  her  fti»l«r*8  re8cae« 


[fieri 
i> 

ft 


Ik. 

'     J;.' 

'%■■■ 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


37 


mlt,  she  eai<J,  in  a  voice  which  trembled,  desjiite  lier 
most  strenuous  efforts  to  make  it  appear  iirm. 

"Yesl" 

Thus  did  Heaven  interpose  to  save  Henriette  from 
the  dreadful  fate  that  threatened  her,  but  it  demandod 
as  a  Bacrilice  that  another  should  sulfer  in  her  place, 
and  that  a  pure,  almost  holy  woman,  should  take  unou 
herself  the  sin  of  a  falsehood  as  she  regarded  it;  but 
who  shall  say,  that  in  the  last  great  day,  any  recoid 
of  that  falsehood  shall  be  found. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


CRCELTT  AND  SUFFKRIKO. 


Again  do  we  find  the  poor  blind  girl  in  the  squalid 
hat  of  the  Frochards.  Their  crnelty  has  so  worn  upon 
the  young  girl,  that  she  has  wasted  away  to  but  a  sha- 
dow of  her  former  self,  and  now  seems  hardly  able  to 
walk. 

We  find  her  lying  upon  her  miserable  straw  bed,  in 
alight,  troubled  sleep,  while  over  her,  bends  Pierre, 
the  honest-hearted  cripple. 

As  he  gazes  upon  her  attenuated  features,  the  tears 
of  pity  and  love  flood  his  eyes,  and  he  murmurs  : 

"Poor  child  I  so  young — so  weak — so  lovely,  and 
yet  condemned  to  so  hard  a  fate.  Ah,  me,  I  can' do  no- 
thing. Jacques  suspects  and  watches  me.  If  I  were 
to  gain  courage  enough  to  make  one  «tep  towards  her 
release,  he  would  discover  it  and  kill  me.  Then  what 
would  become  of  her?     I  shudder  to  think  of  it." 

He  had  unconsciously  spoken  the  last  words  quite 
loud,  and  they  awoke  the  poor  girl. 

Raisiug  herself  upon  her  arm,  r,he  asked  in  a  timid 
voice : 

"Who  is  there?" 

"It  is  I,  mii'amzelle — Pierre." 

"  Ah,  Pierre  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
ami  thankfulness.  "  I  am  glad  it  i.s  y  )u.  I  may  sleep 
a  little  loriger.  may  I  not  ? " 

"  Sleep,  ma'amz-ille,  sleep  don't  be  frightened,  I 
will  not  leave  yon." 

In  the  greatness  of  Bierre'r.  sympathy  he  reached  out 
and  stroked  the  miseri^^le  rags  which  served  the  poor 
girl  as  a  dress.  t 

'■  Oh,  1  ara  so  tired4K  she  e<xclaimed,  as  she  laid  down 
again  upon  the  hard  bed.iand  tried  to  cover  herself 
with  the  few  pieces  of  cloth  that  served  her  as  a  cov- 
ering. 

As  tenderly  as  could  a  mother  cover  her  darling  did 
Pierre  draw  the  scanty  clothes  over  Louise's  wasted 
torm,  and  with  tender  solicitude  did  he  watch  over 
her  until  she  lost  herself  in  sleep  agaiu. 

"  Yes,  sleep,  poor  child,  he  said   as   he  watched  her. 
^  rV7.d  forgin   your  misery.      She  seems  calmer    now  • 

fierhaps  she  is  dreaming  of  happier  days,  of  those  she 
oves,  and  who  love  and  weep  for  her  now.  .Jacques 
has  forbidden  me  to  think  of  her;  but  I  can  defy  liini 
there.  I  will  think  of  her;  yes,  and  save  her  too, 
even  if  it  cost  me  my  life  !  Yes,  yes,  that  would  be 
better — die  for  her  if  I  can  save  her.  I  can  weaken 
these  bolts  and  Jacques  will  not  discover  it." 

As  Pierre  thought  of  this  chance  for  escape  he  oanght 
up  a  screw  driver,  and  running  to  the  door  began  tak- 
ing out  the  screws. 

While  he  was  thus  eng«eed  the  fhonirht  fl.ohe.l  over 


him  that  the  act  he  was 


oommittinir  was  equivalent  to 


Bignmg  h.s  own  death  ^«,,^„,,  ^^^  he  hesitated. 

Whatam  I  doing  7  ",,«  exclaimed.     "Alas!  I  shall 
have   o  pay  for  this  with  mv  life-no,  no.  I  cannot !  " 
Just  ds  he  arrived  at   this   coneltision    Ivonise  moved 
uneasily  in  her  sleep,  ;,„!    i„  ^  low,  sweet  voice  she 
murmured : 

'Henriette — sister,  sister." 

Pierre  went  hastily  toward  her,  thinking  she  had 
hearl  something;  but  he  soon  understood  why  she  had 
spokAn. 

"  Sha   was   dreaming  of  her  sister,"  he  said.     "A 


smile  lights  up  her  p.iUid/face.  She  never  smiles  when 
she  is  awake.  Oh,  if  I  help  her  to  escape,  and  her 
happy  dreams  become  a  reality,  she  would  remember 
nie  with  pity,  nerhaps  with  love." 

These  thoughts  iuvitedhim  to  action,  and  heresolved 
to  continue  his  labors. 

"  I  have  begun  my  work,"  he  said  resolutely,  "  and 
I  will  finish  it." 

But  it  was  destined  that  he  should  do  no  more  to- 
ward it  on  that  night;  for  just  as  he  had  spoken  his 
mother  entered.  She  gave  a  quick,  suspicious  look 
around,  and  then  in  her  shrill,  inetalic  voice  exclaim- 
ed : 

"Hello!  master  knife-grinder;  what  brings  you 
home  so  early  ?    No  work  ont&ide,  eh  ?  " 

"  It  is  growing  dark,  so  I  brought  my  work  home 
with  nie,"  answered  Pierre,  going  to  his  wheel  and 
commencing  to  work. 

"  So  as  to  be  near  Ma'amzelle  Louise,  you  mean," 
sneered  the  old  woman.     "  I  have  my  eye  on  yon." 

"It  would  be  better  to  have  your  eye  on  Jacques; 
but  you  never  find  fault  witii  him." 

"  Whyshould  I?  he  is  the  oldest,  and  master  here," 
replied  the  old  hag,  as  she  began  her  preparations  for 
dinner." 

"  Where  is  he  now  1 '  asked  Pierre. 
"At  his  work,  to  be  sure,"  answered  Mother  Fro- 
chard,  with  a  touch  of  pride  in  her  voice.  "He  has 
worked  two  days  this  week,  think  of  that !  Isn't  it  a 
shame  that  a  handsome  fellow  like  him  should  have  to 
work." 

"  Don't  I  work  every  day  in  the  week  I  "  asked 
Pierre,  who  could  not  see  whv  it  sf.ould  be  shameful 
for  his  brother  to  have  to  work,  and  a  matter  of  course 
that  he  should  be  busy  from  early  morning  until  late 
at  iiight.  ^ 

"  VVhat  else  are  you  fit  for  1 "  sneered  the  old  woman 
as  she  surveyed  her  son's  deformed  body  with  a  look 
almost  of  disgust. 

The  tears  gathered  in  the  cripple's  eyes:  bnt  he  man 
aged  to  restrain  them,  and  as  Jacques  entereo,  he  had 
turned  and  resumed  hia  work. 

There  was  a  deep  frown  on  Jacques'  brow  as  he  en- 
tered the  hut  with  nti  angry  gestuie,  tore  off  the  leath- 
ern iipion  he  hail  been  wearing  at  his  labor,  flung  him- 
self down  in  the  nearest  chair,  and  witha  growlof  liis- 
pleasuj-e,  exclaimed  : 

"  I  have  had  enough  of  it — no  more  work  for  me.  I 
am  tired  of  it." 

"  It  is  tiresome,  isn't  it,  my  son  ?  "  remarked  the  old 
woman  soothingly. 
"  It's  fiisgusiing!  "  assented  Jacqueo. 
And  turning  to  light   his  pipe,  he  saw  Pierre,   wlio, 
leaning  iigainst  his  wheel,  was  listening  to  the  difler- 
encH  between  his  mother's  recepiiim  of  her  two  sons. 

"  Hello,  Master  Cupid.  Arc  you  there  1"  he  cried  in 
his  rough,  commanding  voice.  "Go  sharpen  my  cut- 
lass, you'll  hnd  it  at  tlie  wine  bliop  in  the  back 
street. 

"  Verv  well,"  answered  Pierre  in  a  quiet  way. 
"What  is   this?"  asked  Jacques,  as  he  arose,  and 
went  towards  tl-e   bed  where  Louise  lay.       "Asleep, 
he  ?     Why  Imu'I  she  at  work  ?" 

"That's' what  I  want  to  know,"  chimed  in  the  old 
woman.       "  She's   sleeping  instead   of  working  for  a 

"  Whv.  she  is  BO  used  to  it  that  she  cities  when  she 
is  asleef ,"  laughed  Jacques,  as  he  saw  the  great  tears 
rolling  down  the  poor  girl's  wasted  cheeks. 

"  Is  she  orving  7  "  asked  Pievre  anxiously,  as  he  went 
towards  the  "bed. 

"  What's  that  to  yon  7  "  fiercely  demanded  Jacques. 

"She  is  an  ob«finnte.  hvx  hvporrite."  rsp''*"^  <*^®  "'*' 
woniMU.  pronouncing  va(  li  w.'i.l  with  an  ^'•r""^.'^;,^' 
«ho  sliced  the  vegetables  for  the  evening's  soup,  in's 
moMiinii  I  had  to  push  her  along  to  make  her  walk  at 
,ill,  and  as  to  singing,  she  has  no  more  voice  than  a 
nrow." 

"  I  will  make  her  sing  if  I  try,"  exclaimed  Jacqnea 


38 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


coArsaly,  and  lit  the  sftuie  time  luakiug  a  luoiiou  as  it' 
be  would  drag'  her  from  the  bed. 

■'  You  will  kill  her,"  cried  Pierre,  springing  towards 
his  brother  aa  though  he  would  preveut  hita  from 
to  idling  the  poor  girl.  "  Can't  you  see  that  she  ia 
sick '( " 

•'  Nouaeuse  !  "  exclaimed  Mother  Fiochard.  '•  She  is 
shaiiiuing,  I  know  her  tricks." 

"  What  ia  the  matter  with  her?  "  asked  Jacques. 

"Sh«  has  got  some  new  notion  iu  her  head.  I  can't 
tell  what,"  replied  his  mother. 

"  1  can  tell  you,"  said  Pierre.  "'  You  remember  the 
night  of  the  snow  etoim.  After  linishing  her soni^,  she 
cried  out  at  the  top  ot  her  voice,  'Henriette!  Heuri- 
ette  !  my  sisLei' " 

■'  Yes,  and  I  stopped  her  mouth  pretty  quick,"  said 
the  eld  woniau,  chuckling  lo  herself. 

"  Yes — yes — you  twisted  her  arm  until  you  nearly 
broke  it,"  and  as  Pierre  thought  of  the  brutal  treatment 
to  whici)  Liouise  was  subjected  that  night,  the  sobs 
canie  so  fast  as  to  almost  preveut  his  speaking. 

"  Well,  why  didn't  she  mind  me?"  asked  La  Fro- 
chard  uuconcernedly. 

"  You're  killing  her." 

"  I  can't  afford  to  support  her  in  idleness.  She  must 
work,  or  if  she  won't "  \ 

•'  I'll  find  the  way  to  make  her,"  said  Jacques,  linr 
ishing  the  sentence  his  mother  had  begun.   ■ 

"You  !  What  would  youdo ''  "  asked  Pierre,  tremb- 
ling with  fear. 

"  That  is  my  business." 

By  this  time  the  old  woman  had  finished  her  prepa- 
rations for  dinner,  and  after  putting  the  food  over  the 
fire  to  cook,  she  went  to  the  poor  blind  girl,  who,  en- 
tirely exhausted  by  the  long  walks  she  was  obliged  to 
take,  had  remained  sound  asleep  during  the  time  they 
had  been  conversing. 

With  no  gentle  hand,  the  old  hag  grasped  the  yonng 
girl  by  the  arm,  and  dragged  her  lo  her  feet. 

''  Come,  get  up  my  fine  lady  "  she  said.  "  No  more 
airs,  you  must  go  out  and  earn  your  living.  Here, 
make  your  toilette  firat.  Let  down  this  hair,"  and  the 
old  wretch  gave  Louise's  heavy  hsiir  a  sudden  wrench, 
and  it  fell  rippling  about  her  form. 

'■  Give  me  that  shawl,  and  take  off  this  scarf,  they 
keep  you  too  warm,"  and  as  she  spoke  La  Frochard 
took  the  articles  she  had  spoken  of,  from  the  girl,  and 
put  them  on  herself,  tying  the  scarf  carefully  around 
ner  own  throat.  "  You'll  shiver  more  comfortably 
without  these  things." 

"  And  that  is  what  thev  call  making  her  toilette," 
muttered  Pierre  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


TORTURE. 


Louise  stood  trembling  with  fear  and  cold,  as  the 
old  woman  was  thus  preparing  her  to  go  out  begging, 
aud  she  had  need  of  all  her  strength  even  to  stand, 
much  less  walk. 

She  could  hardly  be  worse  off  than  she  was  now, 
and  she  resolved  to  brave  the  power  of  her  torment- 
ors. 

"Eh?  eh  y  What  next?"  asked  the  old  woman 
sharply,  and  turning  to  Jacques  she  said  with  a  sneei'. 
'•  Do  you  hear  that !     Sue  does  not  wish  to  go  out. 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  and  the  threat  implied  in 
Jacques'  brutal  tones  caused  the  poor  girl  to  tremble 
as  if  in  an  ague  fit 

Pierre  saw  the  storm  that  was  gathering,  aud  knew 
that  it  must  soon  break  upon  the  blind  girl's  defense- 
less head.  Anxious  to  save  her  all  the  trouble  he 
oould,  ho  went  close  to  her  and  whispered  waminglv. 

•'Take  care!" 

"  Come  here,  mv  little  beauty,"  said  Jacques  coarse- 
ly, as  he  Nttempte^  lo  take  her  hand. 


'•  I  forbid  you  to  touch  me,"  exclaimed  the  pool 
girl,  recoiling  iu  horror  from  his  villainous  touch. 

"Oh,  ho,"  sneered  the  brute  in  human  form,  ••  then 
we  are  no  longer  friends." 

"  Yon  !  Friends!"  exclaimed  Louise.  "  You're  crue? 
wretches. 

"  Yet  you  were  glad  enough  to  share  our  hom«i 
when  we  picked  you  up  in  the  streets." 

'•  Yes.  I  was  grateful  to  you  then,  because  you  of 
fered  me  a  shelter.  Alas,  1  learned  too  soou  that  it 
was  not  pity  for  my  misfortunes  that  moved  you.  No, 
no,  you  wanted  to  make  use  of  aiy  afliiction.  Yoii 
have  starved,  tortured,  beaten  me;  but  now,  feeble  as 
1  am,  my  will  shall  be  stronger  than  your  violence.  J 
will  beg  no  more  !  " 

As  Louise  thus  declared  her  intention  of  submitting 
no  longer  to  the  commands  of  her  tormentors,  siie 
stood  erect,  and  her  slight  form  seemed  to  expand, 
and  for  the  moment  she  undoubtedly  had  the  strength 
to  resist  ;  but  alas  !  only  for  a  moment  could  she  ex- 
pect to  have  strengtli  enough  even  to  permit  of  her 
standing  erect. 

'•  When  her  blood  is  up  she  is  8upert>,"  said  Jacques 
gazing  with  admiration  upon  her. 

■•  Oh,  well,  well,"  laughed  the  old  woman,  "that  is 
all  mighty  fine  ;  but  where  is  the  bread  aud  butter  to 
come  fiom  ?  " 

■•  I  care  not,"  said  Louise,  firmly, 

"Do  yon  hear  ?'*  asked  Pierre  of  his  mother,  while  he 
gaied  at  Louise  in  alarm.  "  Do  vou  know  what  she 
means?     She  will  starve  ratiier  than  beg." 

"  Nonsense,"  was  the  sneering  reply.  "  She  will  get 
tired  of  that  soon  enough." 

"  Never!  "  cried  the  blind  girl. 

"  Well,  we'll  see  if  locking  you  up»  in  that  garret 
won't  bring  you  to  your  senses." 

Aud  the  old  woman  laughed  as  she  saw  the  flush  of 
fear  that  passed  over  the  poor  girl's  face,  and  she  no- 
ticed that  her  attitude  was  not  so  defiant. 

"  If  I  enter  that  place,  I  shall  never  leave  it  alive," 
said  Louise  piteously. 

"Poor  child!  poor  child!"  exclaimed  Pierre,  aa  he 
turned  away  to  hide  his  tears. 

"  Why  she  is  magnificent,"  said  Jacques  iu  admira- 
tion. "I'd  never  have  believec^that  she  Had  so  much 
spirit."  *° 

As  he'spoke  he  went  towards  ft?e  trembling  girl,  and 
tried  to  kiss  her ;  but  sBe  miiimged  to  escape  from 
him. 

As  Jacques  attempted  this  outrage,  Pierre  rushed 
forward  as  though  he  would  strike  liim  to  the  earth; 
but  he  checked  himself,  and  exclaimed  iu  a  voice  filled 
with  reproach  : 

"  Jacques  !" 

"Well,  wli;it  is  it?  You  don't  like  it,  I  supjiose. 
Master  Cupid.     Well,  forbid  it,  why  don't  you?       , 

•'  I  do. ' 

And  Pierre  was  about  to  rush  forward  again  ;  bat 
Jacques'  threatening  attitude  caused  him  to  stop,  and 
lie  went  to  a  further  corner  of  the  room,  muttering  to 
himself: 

"Oh,  miserable,  cowardly  wretch  that  I  am,"  aud  he 
sobbed  like  a  child  at  the  thought  of  his  own  coward-' 
ice. 

•■  Come,  come  along,"  said  the  old  woman,  taking 
Louise  again  by  the  arm,  aud  dragging  her  towards  the 
steps.  "  You're  strong  enough  when  you  want  to  be. 
Up  into  the  garret  with  vou,"  and  the  old  wretch, 
half-carried,  half-diauged  the  poor  girl  along,  until  at 
the  steps  Louise  fell  from  her  grasp,  aud  lay  upon  the 
stairs,  seemingly  too  feeble  to  move. 

"Yes,  that  is  right,  mother,  ta^e  her  up,"  said  Jac- 
ques, encouragingly,  "get  her  out  of  the  way.  Oh, 
come  here,  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  added,  as  he 
•uddeuly  thought  of  some  message  that  he  tiad  forgot- 
ten. 

The  old  woman  hurried  down  to  hear  what  her 
darling  eon  had  to  say,  and  as  she  left  Loaise 
where  She  had  fallen  upon  the  stairs,  Pierre   (09k   tb« 


THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 


39 


<«ppoii unity  of  slipping  around  on  th»  opposite  side  of 
tlie  swir  case,  and  whispering: 

"  You  can  escape.  I  have  unscrewed  the  lock.  The 
key  to  tlie  street  door  is  uini»T  your  matiiess.  Trust 
to  Heaven  to  guard  you.  Notliiug  worse  can  liappen 
than  threatens  you  here.'' 

Jle  tinislied  whispering  just  in  time  to  hear  Jacques 
say  to  his  mother  : 

"  Lock  her  up  securely.  I  have  my  reasons  for  dis- 
tinsting  Master  Cupid."' 

"Yes,  yes,  I  uftderstand,"  leplied  the  old  woman, 
shaking  her  head  knowingly. 

'•  Come,  my  innocent,  hard  working  brother,"  order- 
ed Jacques,  in  a  sneering  tone.  "  Come  with  me,  1 
want  you."' 

•'  I  iiavework  here,"  answered  Pierre,  as  he  went 
to  his  wheel,  and  commenced  to  work. 

•'  And  I  have  work  for  you  elsewere,"'  exclaimed 
Jacques  in  an  angry  tone,  and  with  a  menacing  ges- 
ture. "  1  told  you  to  sharpen  my  cutlass.  Come  with 
nie,  and  keep  your  whining  for  this  blind  beauty  until 
-Hiiother  time.     Come  along,  I  say." 

The  cripple  did  not  dare  to  liisobey  his  brother's 
orders  wlien  they  were  given  in  that  manner,  and  he 
started  slowly  towards  him,  murmuring: 

'•  Ah  !  if  I  iiad  anything  but  water  in  my  veins,  I'd 
■*lo  something  more  than  whine." 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


VISITORP. 


As  tiie  door  closed  upon   her  two  sons,  the   old  wo-! 
man  gave  way  to   her  feelings  of  admiration   ior  her 
handsome  Jacques. 

Louise  lay  on  the  stairs  as  rigid  as  if  she  had  been 
<arved  from  stone. 

La  Frochard  seated  herself  by  the  table,  and  com- 
niu!ied  with  lierself. 

"  Ah  !  what  a  splendid  .ellow  Jacques  is.  The  very 
image  of  his  dear  I'ai  her.  There  was  a  man  for  you; 
bnt  they  cut  otf  his  head.  Ah!  it  makes  me  Hick  to 
think  of  it.  I  must  take  something  to  strengthen 
me." 


faith  in  the  virtue  of 
eiiiiig  herself,  and  she 
pacidiis  pocket  for  the 
8  carried. 

she  said  threateningly. 
I'll  attend   to   vou  in  a 


Mother   Frochard 
(tiandy  as  a  means  o 
«ommenced  to  seai'ch 
brandy  bottle  which 

"  Yes,  yes,  young 
as  ^he  continued  her 
minute.'' 

She  had  found  the  bottle,  and  taking  a  long  draught, 
«he  exclaimed: 

Ah!  that  warms  my  heart!"  Then  after  another 
lirink,  she  said,  much  as  she  would  have  said  had 
Louise  been  before  her  instead  of  lying  on  the  stairs 
Mf- -nearly  n  swoon.  "We'll  see  how  you  enjoy  a 
touple  of  days  starvation.  Ye.x,  Jacfjues  is  right,  we 
must  break  "your  obstinate  spirit.  I'lieii  when  you 
come  out  you"  won't  refuse  to  help  your  friends  maUt- 
;in  honest  living.'' 

Another  deep  pull  at  the  bottle,  and  the  old  liag 
was  ready  for  any  work,  however  wicked.  With  a 
fiendish  look  upon  her  face,  she  went  to  the  blind  giil, 
jtnd,  taking  lier  by  the  aims,  forced  her  to  stand. 

'•  Shamming  again,  are  you  ?  Stand  up  and  come 
with  me,''  and  the  old  wretch  began  to  pull  the  poor 
girl  up  the  dilapidnti-d  stairs. 

Oh,  madauie,"  Kcreaim-tl  Louise  in  an  agony  of 
Iteiror.  as  she  fully  understood  iliat  she  was  about  to 
be  confined  again, in  the  garret,  "have  you  no  soul, 
|no  pity  ?    Do  not  k^ll  me  !" 

I  don't  intend  to.  you're  too  valuable,"  replied  the 
lold  woman,  who  had  succeeded  in  getting  Louise  to 
Itbe  door,  and  opening  it,  she  thrust  her  in.  "There 
Iget  ill  with  you,  I'll  see  you  safe  inside.'' 

So  frantically  did  tlie  terrified  girl  cling  to  the  old 
I  woman's  garments,  that  she  found  it  impossible  to 
shake  her  off,  iind  was  obliged  to  go  in  with    her,  un- 


til she  could  treat  her  into  something  approaclnng  a 
state  of  submission. 

«  «  »  IF  #  l> 

While  La  Frochard  is  thus  pleasantly  engaged,  we 
will,  in  a  few  brief  word.-i,  explain  what  happened 
after  Marianne  was  carried  away  into  exile. 

Henriette  remained  at  La  Salpetriere  until  night- 
fall, and  in  the  meantime  the  Count  de  Linieres  nad 
received  notice  that  she  had  embarked  in  the  prison- 
ship.  He  at  once  gave  Picard  the  necessary  orders 
for  the  release  of  the  chevalier,  and  at  dusk  lie  and 
Henriette  and  De  Vaudrey  were  together,  discussing 
plans  for  the  release  of  Louise. 

Picaril  proved  a  valu.nble  aid  in  the  matter,  and  be- 
fore Henriette  had  been  out  of  pri.son  an  hour,  sho 
was  on  her  way  to  find  the  blind  girl  from  whom  she 
had  been  separated  so  long. 

They  had  no  difficulty  in  procuring  a  warrant  for 
the  arrest  of  Jacques  and  his  mother,  and  a  guard  to 
execute  it,  and  thus  armed  with  the  powe*-  of  the  law, 
thev  anticipated  no  trouble. 

The  boat-house  occupied  by  the  Frocliards  had,  as 
the  reader  will  remember,  an  entrance  opening  on  the 
Seine  wiiicli  was  seldom  used,  and  tlie  only  other 
means  of  entering  the  house  was  through  a  long,  dark 
passage  leading  from  the  Rue  Noir.  At  the  entrance 
of  this  passage  the  rescuing  party  halted,  and  it  was 
then  decided  that  Picard  shoiijxl  lead  the  guards  around 
to  the  door  on  the  river  sffle,  while  the  chevalier 
sliouhl  pioceed  through  the  passage,  contrivingto reach 
the  house  at  the  same  time  the  soldiers  did. 

It  was  thougtit  necessary  that  the  chevalier  should 
go  to  the  next  street  where  he  coiihi  watch  the  move- 
ments of  the  guards  and  thus  time  his  own  movements. 
Leaving  Henriette  at  the  eiiiiaiice  of  the  passage, 
with  many  cautions  that  she  should  not  stir  from  tlia 
spot,  he  hurried  away. 

To  (he  young  t'irl.  who  had  thus  waited  the  prepar- 
ations which  were  to  restore  her  to  her  sister,  the  time 
passed  with  leaden  wings,  and  she  could  not  remain 
inactive.  She  resolved  to  enter  the  bouse  in  advance 
of  the  others  and  thus  have  t-lie  pleasure  of  clasping 
her  sister  in  iiej  arms  a  few  moments  sooner. 

Alone  she  threaded  the  dark,  noisome  passage. 
Alone  she  pursued  her  rash  journey,  prompted  by  her 
great  love  for  her  sister,  braving  all  tiie  horrors  of  that 
viper's  den  in  order  that  she  might  meet  her  sister  a 
few  moments  sooner. 

Mother  Frochard  descended  fiom  the  garret;  she 
had  left  Louise  insensible,  and,  havintr  thus  performed 
her<lutv,  l)eto(>k  herself  to  the  consolation  whicti  she 
could  derive  from  her  brandy  bottle. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  start- 
ini;  in  alfriglit  she  hid  her  bottle  among  some  of  the 
cooking  utensils  ihai  littered  the  table,  and  advancing 
to  the  door  asked  : 

••  Who's  there  1     What  do  you  want  t  " 

It  was  Ileiiriette's  voice  that  answered  from  the  out- 
.side. 

•'  I  am  looking  for  some  one— for  Madam  Frochard." 

"  What  do  jou  want  of  her?"  asked  the  old  woman, 
suspiciously,  and  making  no  motion  toward  opening 
the  door. 

"  I  must  speak  with  her." 

"  Are  you  alone?  " 

'•  Yes,"  I  am  alone." 

The  answer  seemed  to  satisfy  La  Frochard,  for  she 
imniediatelv  unfastened  the  do<u-  saying: 

••  Well,  if  you  are  alone  you  may  come  in." 

Henriette  entered,  and  b:it  a  single  look  at  the  squal- 
lid  place  frightened  her.  The  whole  house  looked  a 
Ht  abode  for  murderers  and  thieves,  and  the  appear- 
ance of  the  old  woman  seemed  to  heighten  that  impres- 
sion. 

"Great  Heavens  !  can  this  be  the  place  ?  "  she  ask- 
i  ed  herself  in  astonishment. 

As  she  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  gazing   with 


40 


TIIK  TWO  ORPHANS. 


fear  and  trembling,  upon  every  object.      Motlier  Fio- 
cliard  was  lavoiiiig  hi;r  with  swupiciousi  lookn. 

•'  WkII,  young  woman,"  alie  raid  after  waiting  a  few 
moments  lor  Heurietie  to  speak,  "  you  want  to  see 
Madame  Frochard,  what  have  you  got  to  say  to 
her  '> " 

Still  Henriette  hesitateti,  and  placed  her  hand  upon 
her  heart  to  still  its  tumultuous  beatings. 

"  Come,  what  is  it?  "  again  asked  the  old  woman 
impatiently,  *•  What  are  you  looking  for  1  Do  you 
expect  to  find  any  one  h£ve  1 " 

This  question  arouseu  Henriette  to  the  sense  of  the 
the  mission  which  had  brought  her  to  this  fearful 
place,  and  she  answered  quickly. 

"  Yes,  yea.  I  am  'ookiug  for  the  person  who  lives 
here  with  you." 

"  What  person  1  "  and  Mother  Frochard's  metallic 
voice  was  harder  and  shriller  than  ever. 

"  A  young  girl."  answered  Henriette. 

"Ah  lia,"  thought  the  old  woman,  "  this  must  be  the 
sister."  Then  she  said  in  an  indifferent  voice.  "  I 
doll'',  know  anything  about  any  young  girl." 

"  You  don't  know  her?  "  asked  Henriette  in  aston- 
ish laeut. 

"  No." 

"  Am  I  mistaken?  This  house  answers  the  descrip- 
tion, and  your  name  is  Frochard, is  it  not?" 

"Eiphremie  Frochard.     What  then?" 

"  You  beg  in  the  streets  with  a  young  girl  who 
sings,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  Me  beg  in  the  streets  !  "  replied  the  old  woman 
in  a  highly  indignant  tone,  as  if  the  idea  of  such  a  thing 
was  an  insult  to  her.  "  Why  should  I  beg  ?  Haven't 
I  two  sons  who  work  for  me?  One  of  them  is  a  knife- 
grinder — look  there  is  his  wheel,  and  the  othfer  one — is 
— oh  if  he  were  only  here  now." 

"  You  must  be  the  one,"  said  Heuiiette,  half  to  her- 
self:  "the  doctor  told  me  that  he  knew  you,  and " 

Henrietta  stopped  talking,  and  gave  utterance  to  a 
scream,  expressive  of  surprise  and  fear. 

She  had  noticed  the  shawl  and  scarf  which  the  old 
woman  had  taken  fi-om  Louise,  and  fastened  upon  her- 
Belf.  , 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  the  oldTiag,  in  no  lit- 
tle surprise. 

'•  rhal  shawl — I  know  it.  It  is  hers — it  is  hers,  I 
tell  you,"  screamed  Henriette,  as  a  thousand  fears  Jfor 
her^ster's  safety  presented  themselves  to  her  mind. 

"  N^t  a  bit  of  it,  it  is  mine,"  boldly  asserted  La 
Frochard,  thinking  she  could  make  the  young  girl  be- 
lieve her. 

"  And  this  scarf  around  your  neck." 

"Well,  what  of  it  ?" 

•'  It  was  made  for  her  by  my  own  hands  .  "  exclaim- 
ed Henriette,  tearing  it  from  the  old  woman's  neck. 
'  Oh,  wretch  I  you  have  lied  to  me." 

For  an  instant  La  Frochard  was  astounded.  She 
had  thought  to  persuade  Henriette  that  she  knew  noiii- 
mg  of  her  sister:  but  it  was  impossible. 

Her  round,  wicked  face  giew  perfectly  fiendish  with 
rage,  as  she  hissed  through  her  clenched  teeth,  tlie  sin- 
gle word: 

"  Caught !  " 
_  Then,  after  a  moment's  thought,  she  turned  to  Hen- 
riette with  a  smile  that  was  intended  to  be  sympathiz- 
ing;. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said  in  a  sorrowful  voice,  "  if  you 
must  know  the  truth,  I'll  tell  you.  When  you  came 
in,  you  were  so  excited  and  frightened,  I  didn't  dare  to 
tell  you  all " 

"  All !  all  what  ?  "  interrupted  Henriette,  in  an  a^o- 
ny  of  apprehension.     "  Speak  quickly." 

"One  evening  about  three  months  ago,"  continued 
motRer  FrochanI,  "  I  met  the  girl  you  are  looking  for, 
wandering  about  the  streets.  I  liad  pity  on  her,  and 
brought  her  home  with  me,  where  I  took  good  care  of 
her." 

The  old  woman   stopped   to   wipe   away  imaginary 
tears  ;  but  the  agonized  girl  exclaimed  : 
"  Go  on,  for  Heaven's  sake  go  on." 


"  Well,"  whined  the  old  hng,  "  she  knew  I  wan  poor 
and  couldn't  afford  to  keep  lier  foi-  nothing,  so  she  sang 
sometimes  in  the  streets — ^justtohelp  me — and  she  sang 
like  a  little  bird." 

Again  the  old  woman's  feelings  overcome  her,  anJ 
she  vyas  obliged  to  stop. 

"  And  then,  what  then?" 

"And  then,  why  you  see  the  poor  child  wasn't  very 
strong,  and  what  with  the  life  we  lead,  and  the  sorrow 
she  felt  she  couldn't  stand  it,  and  the  poor  little  bird 
broke  down  entirely,  She  said  she  couldn't  sing  any 
more,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  For  two  days  sha 
has  been  dumb.     She'll  sing  no  more — no  more." 

As  Mother  Frochard  finished,  her  voice,  which,  a> 
first  had  had  the  professional  wliine  in  it,  sank  almost 
to  a  whisper,  and  seating  heiself  in  a  chai(f  she  cover- 
ed her  face  with  her  apron,  and  simulated  an  agony  of 
grief. 

"  Dead  !  "  exclaimed  Henriette,  whila  every  vestige 
of  color  left  her  face,  and  she  stood  like  one  petrified, 
"  dead,  my  sister,  my  Louise  is  dead!"  nod  overcome 
by  her  intense  sorrow  she  sank  insensible  upon  the 
floor. 

"  Fainted,  eh  ?"  cried  the  old  woman,  jnmping  up 
quickly,  and  gazing  at  the  prostrate  girl.  '"  What  am 
1  to  do  with  her?  Oh,  if  Jacques  were  onVf  here.  I 
must  go  for  him." 

She  started  towards  the  door;  but  the  thougiit 
Hashed  over  her  that  she  had  fo-gotten  to  Icck  the 
garret  door,  and  she  ran  back  and  performed  that 
duty. 

"  There,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  "there 
is  nothing  to  fear  now,  and  I'll  go  a  >d  call  Jacques." 

The  ohf  woman  departed  in  searcl  of  her  son,  leav* 
ing  Henriette  lying  upon  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXVH 


THE   RECOGNITION. 


Not  many  minutes  after  Mother  Frochard   went  in 
search   of  Jacques,  Louise,  recovering  her  conscious- 


ness, vyhich  she  had  lost  thr 
woman  had  given  her,  to 
garret,  pushed  with  all 
the  door  of  her  prison,  an 
screws,  it  yielded  to  her 


the  beat;ng  the  old 

to  remain  in   the 

e   streiigtS  agiiinwfc 

re  had  loosened  the 

and  she   was  freed 


head   of  the    stairs. 


•Jl    M 


from  her  place  of  torture. 

For  a  moment  she  stood" 
with  her  ears  strained  to  their  utmost  tension  to  catch 
any  sound  that  should  betoken  th»  presence  of  any  one 
in  the  hut. 

But  all  was  still,  and  she  commenced  to  descend  the 
stairs,  feeling  her  way  carefully,  lest  she  should  stum- 
ble on  some  of  the  decayed  boards. 

"They  are  all  gone,"  she   murmured.     "Pierre   tol^». 
me  the  truth,  the  lock  would   not  hold.      Yes,    1   will" 
follow  his  advice.     If  I  can  find  my  way  to   the   street 
through  that  long  passage,  I  will  ask  the  first  passer-by 
to  take  me  to   that  good  d(ictor  at   the   Hospital  St. 
Louis." 

Trembling  with  excitement  she  felt  her  way  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  where  one  step  further,  in  thjfe'  same 
direction  would  have  biought  her  in  contact  'with  the 
insensible  body  of  her  sister  ;  and  then  gropinaiior  the- 
wall,  Bile  reached  the  door.  / 

With  a  oy  of  joy  as  she  reached  it,  she  felt,  with 
easrer,  feverish  hands,  for  the  rude  latch. 

Eagerly  she  tried  to  open  it,  but  it  resisted  all  her 
efforts,  and  as  the  truth  flashed  o^^Mier  mind,  her 
hands  dropped  by  her  side,  and  <|^H^|»k  to  the  floor 
like  one  smitten  with  the  palj^v^^^^"'* 

"  Locked!  locked  !  What  shall'  I  dSrt  " 

The  sudden  change  from  hopfe  that  was  almost  a 
certainty,  to  deep  despair,  ove»oj,vered  her  for  thu 
moment. 

But  at  last  she  remembered  what  she  should  have 
thought  of  before. 


■( 


THE  TWO  ORPHA^^S. 


41 


"Pierre  told  me  he  had  made  another  key  for  it," 
iiul  starting  np  slie  groped  her  way  across  the  room 
owards  iier  bed,  almost  brushing  the  garments  of  that 
ister  slie  was  so  anxious  to  meet,  as  stio  passed. 

With  hands  trembling  so  that,  slie  couUl  hardly  con- 
:rol  ttiem,  Lonise  felt  ibr  the  precious  key  which 
hould  assure  her  of  freedom. 

A  ei'y  of  joy  hnr.st  from  her  pallid,  quivering  h'pa  as 
iier  lingers  came  in  contact  with  the  precious  object. 

■'  Good,  brave  Pierre,"  she  exclaimed  thankfully. 
"  Now  I  will  go  at  once." 

She  ai'ose  to  her  feet,  and  made  two  or  three  at- 
tempts in  the  riglit  direction,  when  her  foot  came  in 
contact  with  the  clothing  of  Henriette. 

Hastily  slie  stooped  down,  and  felt  of  the  inanimate 
body. 

%  "A  woman!"    she  exclaimed   in  accents  of  deepest 
terror.     "  She  is  cold,  she  13  dead." 

Terribly  alarmed  by  what  she  could  not  see,  the 
poor  girl,  believing  herself  to  be  in  the  presence  of 
death,  covered  her  face  with  lier  hands,  and  crouched 
lilose  to  the  floor. 

'•  Oh,  Heaven  ! "  she  cried,  "  they  have  committed 
some  terrible  crime  and  fled." 

She  timidly  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  passed  it 
once  more  over  the  still  form.  In  so  doing  she  felt  the 
heart  beat,  and  with  a  glad  cry  she  raised  the  head  of 
the  person  before  her. 

"She  is  not  dead  !  madam,  madam,  speak,  speak  to 
uie.  She  does  not  hear  me.  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  can- 
not leave  her  tims." 

Dear  as  was  her  liberty  to  her,  the  poor,  blind  child 
could  not  leave  a  fellow  creature  in  distress,  and  she 
tried  by  all  the  means  in  her  power  to  awaken  the  in- 
eensible  gn!. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  the  door  opened,  and 
mother  Frochard  and  Jacques  entered. 

For  a  single  instant  they  stood  transfixed  with  sur- 
piise,  and  then  with  a  single  thought  they  rushed  to- 
wards the  two  girls. 

"  Separate  them  at  once — quick  !  "  shouted  Jacques 
10  his  mother  who  was  a  few  steps  in  advance. 

La  Frochard  did  not  need  this  warning  ciy  to  induce 
ner  to  rush  towards  Louise,  and  grasp  her  roughly  by 
the  arm. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  1"  she  cried.  "  How  did 
you  get  out?" 

Louise  clung  to  the  body  of  Henriette,  to  prevent  the 
old  woman  from  carrying  her  away;  but  her  slight 
strength  was  of  no  avail  aganist  the  old  hag's  deter- 
mination, and  she  was  rudely  flung  against  the  stair- 
cse. 

As  if  roused  by  th«  noise,  Henriette  opened  her  eyes, 
and  showed  signs  of  returning  consciousness. 

■'  Quick  !  "  shouted  Jacques,  as  he  saw  this  move- 
ment of  Henriette's,  "get  her  out  of  the  way — quick,  I 
tell  you,  the  other  one  is  coming  too." 

"Get  back  with  you— at  once,"  cried  the  old  wo- 
mHn,  at  the  same  time  dragging  Louise  up  the  stairs, 
and  accompanying  each  word  with  a  cruel  blow. 

Just  at  ttiis  moment  Pierre  entered,  and  seeing  Hen- 
riette lying  upon  the  floor,  and  Lonise  .struggling  upon 
the  stairs,  he  understood  at  once,  that  it  was  the  sister 
whom  Louise  liad  so  earnestly  prayed  to  meet. 

"But  the  woman  who  ia  lying  there  ?"  cried  Louise 
to  the  old  woman. 

"  That  is  our  business  and  none  of  yours.  Get  along 
with  you." 

As  La  Frochard  got  Louise  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
Henriette,  who  had  risen  to  her  feet,   saw   the  blind 
girl,  and  running  towards  her,  she  exclaimed  : 
,     "  Ah,  Louise,  /.^ouise  ! " 

\  Jacques  seized  her  instantly,  and  putting  his  hand 
V^'er  her  mouth,  prevented  her  from  speaking  again  or 
^kancing  any  further. 

lint  the  blind  girl  had  caught  the  sound  of  her  sis- 
ter's voice,  and  that  lent  her  addiiional  streutrth. 

Uttering  a  cry  of  sinprise  and  joy,  she  endeavoreii 
to  escape  from  the  old  wretch  wlio  was  neuily  chok- 
ing her. 


"  Go  in~I  tell  yon  get  In  with  you,"  cried  La  Fro- 
chard, as  she  pushed  Louise  in  tlie  room,  and  released 
her  hold  of  her  throat  m  order  to  sliut  the  door. 

Just  then  Henriette  had  succeeded  in  pushing  Jac- 
ques' hand  from  her  mouth,  and  running  to  the  loot  of 
tlie  staii-8,  cried  in  a  loud  voice  : 

"  Louise  !     Sister  !" 

The  cry  gave  Lonise  the  strength  of  a  lioness  for  a 
moneut,  and  pushing  the  old  woman  back  she  ran 
down  the  stairs,  an<i  the  two  so  long  separated,  met  iu 
a  close,  loving  embrace. 

"Henriette!  Henriette!"  exclaimed  Louise  joy- 
fully, covering  her  sister's  face  with  kisses,  "  It  ia 
you,  ii  is  you." 

"Oh,  my  poor  Louise,  my  poor  Louise,"  said  Hen- 
riette, ca^ssing  her  sister's  face.  "How  you  must 
have  suTOred  here  among  these  miserable  wretches  t 
Yes,  miserable  wretches  that  you  are,"  she  continued, 
turning  to  Jacques  and  his  mother,  who,  now  that  the 
sisters  were  aware  of  each  other's  presence,  felt  that 
it  would  make  their  own  case  more  desperate,  to  at- 
tempt to  part  them.     "  I  will  have  you  punished." 

She  led  Louise  towards  the  door;  but  JaequcB, 
seeing  her  movement,  darted  past  her,  and  placed 
himself  directly  in  front  of  the  door. 

"  Let  us  go  at  once  I"  commanded  Henriette.  "  Let 
U8  go  ! " 

"  You  shall  not  go,"  replied  Jacques  in  a  rage. 

"  What!  would  you  dare  to  prevent  us''' 

"  Mother,"  said  Pierre,  going  towards  La  Frochard, 
and  speaking  in  a  low  voice.  "  You  had  better  warn 
him  against  violence.     It  is  dangerous  !" 

"  We  must  keep  them,"  replied  the  old  woman  im- 
patiently ;  "  if  they  escape  tliev  will  denounce  us." 

"  You  cannot  leave  here,"  reiterated  Jacques. 

"I  will  cry  out,"  said  Henriette  flrmly  ;  "I  will 
call  for  help." 

"  Try  it,"  was  the  fierce  reply,  "and  see  what  good 
it  will  do.  Besides,  I  warn  you  we  come  of  a  family 
who  kill,"  As  he  said  thin,  he  rushed  towards  Louise, 
and  seizing  her  roughly  by  the  arm  dragged  her  to- 
wards him. 

"She  is  mine,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  I  will  keep 
hei-."' 

Louise  uttered  a  scream  which  j)ierced  Pierre's 
very  heart,  and  infused  into  it  that  courage  he  thought 
he  was  so  deficient  in. 

"  Oh,  this  is  infamous!''  he  cried,  as  he  rushed  be- 
tween Jacques  and  Louise. 

"Do  you  dare  tt)  inicrfere  against  me  1 "  cried 
Jacoues,  almost  beside  himself  with  rage. 

"1  daret"  answered  I'ieire,  and  there  was  that  in 
his  eye  wliich  Jacques  had  never  seen  there  before. 

"Against  me!"  he  exclaimed  again,  us  though 
doubling  that  he  had  heard  aright. 

"  Yes,  against  you  !  "  exclaimed  Pierre,  boldly.  "  I 
have  acted  the  coward  long  enough.  I  thought  because 
you  were  big  and  strong,  that  you  were  brave  ;  l>ut 
you  are  not.  You  fight  with  women — vou  are  a  cow 
aid  I  In  their  defence  my  courage  will  be  more  than 
a  match  for  your  strength." 

"Brave  Plerie  I  "  exclaimed  Louise,  encouragingly. 

"  Depend  on  me,  madeiiKiiselle,"  replied  the  cripple, 
who  seemed  to  liave  grown  lees  deformed,  and  more 
ol  a  man  through  his  new  born  courage. 

"  What  do  you  waiil'f"  liemaiided  Jacques,  whom 
this  new  i)hase  of  Pieire's  chaiacter  had  astonished, 
and  he  could  hardly  believe  what  he  saw. 

"  Let  these  two  "women  go,  '  was  the  cripple's  firm 
replv, 

"Indeed!"  sneered  Jacques.  "Suppose  I  refuse, 
what  then  f"  and  as  he  asked  the  questidu  he  looked  at 
his  brother  as  if  he  would  intimidate  him  with  a  glance 
as  had  been  his  wont  in  days  past. 

But  Piene's  new  born  courage  was  deep.  He  drew 
ilfroin  a  source  that  could  still  cause  it  to  lemain,  and 
that  source  was  the  trembling,  pallid  girl  by  his   side. 

"What  then)''  repeated  Pierre.  "What  then? 
Weil  you  have  said  it :  '  We  come  of  a  family  who 
kill."' 


ji.'    liiV,-'^ 


«K 


CHAPTER    XXV  III. 


KKI'AKATION. 


Lex  u8  for  a 
of  the  Miuisier 
The  Count  de 


few  moments,  visit  the  private  office 
of  Police.  .  .  ,  , 

Liiiieres  is  seated  at  his  wntiug  table 
«uKaKed  iu  deep  thoui^ht.  Arouud  him  are  all  li.e  e  vi- 
deacesof  luxa.7  which  ^veakh  cau  purd.ase^  aud  ve 
he  does  not  appear  to  be  comfortable.  He  has  just,  le- 
:JeivedwordoTcommeudatiou  from  the  kiug,  aad  yet 
■iie  is  not  satisfied  with  himselt.  ,         .   . 

Picard  had  called  at  the  olhce  of  the  mmister  a  few 
hours  previous,  and  bv  as.iertiug  that  Heuuet^e  Guard 
had  been  takeu  from  L.i  Salpetriere,  aud  was  theu  ou 
her  way  to  the  prison  ship  in  company  wi'.h  the  other 
condemned  prisoners,  and  also  by  producing  the  certih- 
<:ate  of  the  guard,  the  valet  had  received  an  order  lor 
the  release  of  the  Chevalier  de  Vaudreji  from  the 
Baslile. 

The  court  had  asserted  the  authority  of  the  family, 
aud  the  power  of  his  office,  and  yet  there  were  many 
things  on  his  mind  svhich  he  could  not  banish. 

He  reviewed  his  couduct  towards  Henriette,  aud  in 
his  heart,  he  could  uot  congratulate  himself  for  the  part 
he  had  takeu  iu  the  persecution  of  the  poor  girl. 

He  had  arrested  Henriette,  and  sent  her  to  L;i  Sal- 
petriere as  a  fallen  woman,  aud  now  she  was  on  her 
way  to  a  life-long  exile,  branded  with  a  crime  of 
which  he  knew  she  was  innocent,  and  for  which  she 
euffered  because  of  his  pride  and  ambition. 

While  he  was  thus  indulging  in  these  gloomy 
thoughts,  his  wife  entered. 

She  had  not  heard  that  Henriette  was  condemned  to 
exile,   aud  had   come   to   intercede   for  the   unhappy 

In  a  few  words  she  explained  the  object  of  her  visit. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  replied  the  couut,  abruptly. 

"Too  late!  Why?" 

"  Because  she  is  now  on  her  way  to  the  place  of  her 
exile,''  replied  De  Linieres  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  half 
ashamed  to  allow  his  wife  to  know  how  far  his  pride 
could  control  his  official  duties.  * 

"Exile!"  exclaimed  the  ceuntess,  sinking  into  a 
chair,  while  a  deathly  palor  came  over  her  face,  alarm- 
ing the  count  more  than  he  cared  to  show.  "  Wiiy 
have  you  doue  this  wicked  thing  1" 

Her  husbaud  made  her  no  answer,  and  for  many  mo- 
ments the  countess  remained  with  her  face  covered  by 
her  hands,  shuddering  with  horror  at  the  most  unjust 
■deed  that  had   been   committed  against  a  defenseless, 

innoceA  girl. 

A  great  struggle  was  going  on  in  her  mind.  Should 
she  ai  this  time  confess  all  of  her  past  life  to  her  hus- 
band— show  what  Henriette  had  done  for  her  own 
•child,  and  for  that  reason  urge  her  pardon  1 

She  trembled  as  she  thought  of  what  her  Imsband's 
wrath  might  be  when  he  learned  all,  and  for  some  time 
-she  could  not  bring  herself  to  say  those  things  which 
alienate  herself  forever  from  him. 

"  When  was  she  sent  away  1 "  asked  the  countess, 
iju  a  voice  tremblinj;   with  emotion. 

■'  Two  hours  ago." 

*'  Then  there  is  yet  time  to  save  her  from  being  car- 
.■ried  to  that  dreadful  place." 

"There  is  time  if  I  wish  to  so  use  it,"  replied  De 
iLiuieres,  in  a  significant  tone. 

'^  She  must  be  sent  for!"  exclaimed  the  lady,  iu  a 
firm  toue. 

"Must  be  1 "  and  the  count  elevated  his  eyebrows 
in  a  manner  peculiiir  to  him  when  displeased. 

"  Yes,  must  be,"  repeated  his  wife.  "  1  will  tell 
you  why  if  you  will  not  interrupt  me  ;  for  in  that  case 
my  courage  might  fail  me,"  and  in  a  rapid  uiaiiiier  she 
continued  :  "  Before  I  met  you,  Count  De  Linieres,  I 
married  without  ray  parents  consent,  and  secretly,  a 
poor  man.  My  parents  discovered  our  secret,  and  al- 
most before  my  very  eyes  they  murdered  my  husband 


THt:  TWO  OKi'UAKS. 

from  me  aud  left  upon  the  steps  of  Notre  Dame.  A 
poor  man,  Heurieiie  Girwd's  lather,  found  the  child, 
carried  it  to  his  humble  home  aud  brought,  it  up  as  one 
of  his  own.  Tliat  child  ia  the  blind  sister  that  Henri- 
ette was  separated  trom,  aud  whom  we  should  have 
found  liad  you  uot  prevented  us  from  leaving  the 
house  iu  the' Faubourg  St.  Houore.  Heuiielie  hau  ta- 
keu care  of,  aud  loved  my  dailuig  as  her  own  sister." 

For  a  moment  the  countess  paused,  as  if  overcome 
bv  emotion,  aud  theu  throwing  herself  at  the  couul'a 
teet  she  cried  : 

"1  pray  you,  on  my  bended  knees,  to  save  this  girl 
from  the  fearfu  land  unjust  doom  you  have  pronounced 
against  her.  For  my  sake,  who  has  suffered  untold 
misery  at  beiug  obliged  to  be  separaied  from  my  child, 
aud  iu  keeping  the  secret  from  you.  I  beg  of  vou  to 
save  her  who  has  been  a  mother  to  my  child,  aud 
who,  for  the  sake  of  that  child,  refused  the  otfera  made 
to  her  by  the  chevalier.     I  beg " 

But  the  poor  womau  could  say  no  more.  Overcome 
by  her  feelings,  she  burst  into  a  Hood  of  tears,  still 
kneeling  at  her  hnsbaud's  feet. 

Very  tenderly  did  the  Count  raise  and  support  her 
to  a  chair.  His  countenance  showed  traces  of  the  deep- 
est agitation,  aud  the  gaze  which  he  fastened  upon  his 
wife,  was  mild  and  sympathetic. 

Turning  to  his  table,  he  wiote  a  few  lines  on  the 
paper  which  bore  the  official  seal  of  the  office,  and 
then  rang  the  bell. 

The  automaton  which  acted  as  clerk  appeared,  aud 
to  him,  the  Count  handed  the  paper,  saying: 

"See  that  this  order  is  executed  without  a  moment's 
delay,  and  bring  the  person,  named  therein,  to  me 
j  immediately  upon  her  arrival." 

The  clerk  bowed  and  withdrew. 


As  soon  as  they  were  alone  again,  the  minister  ap- 
proached his  wife,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  her  head, 
said  iu  a  voice  which  was  singularly  gentle  and  sweet. 
.^"My  poor  Diane,  how  you  must  have  suffered." 

In  an  instant  the  countess  had  flung  her  arms 
around  her  husband's  neck,  and  was  weeping  happy 
tears  upon  liis  bosom. 

Now  was  the  secret  which  had  existed  so  long  be- 
tween them,  and  poisoned  the  lives  of  both,  cleared 
away,  aud  for  the  first  lime,  since  their  married  life 
began  they  were  united. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


THE  RESCtJE. 


For  a  moment  Jacques  was  almost  petrided  with 
astonishment.  That  Pierre,  the  poor,  spiritless  cripple 
should  dare  thus  defy  him,  was  past  his  comprehen- 
sion. 

But  only  for  a  moment  did  he  remain  inactive,  and 
then  he  went  towards  the  young  girls  as  if  to  separate 
them. 

"  Dare  to  lay  a  hand  on  either  of  them,"  shouted 
Pierre,  as  he  ran  to  his  wheel,  and  took  therefrom,  a 
long  knife  which  he  had  been  sharpening,  "and  I  wil' 
plunge  this  knife  into  your  heart." 

Jacques  recoiled  from  before  the  weapon,  and  Pieri* 
placed  himself  before  Henriette  and  Louise,  who, 
clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  were  awaiting  the  resiiU 
of  the  stniK^le  wliich  was  now  inevitable. 

"Your  life  shall  pay  for  this!"  cried  Jacques, 
drawing  his  cutlass  aud  going  towards  the  brave, 
cripple. 

"  Remember  that  you  are  brothers."  cried  the  old 
woman,  wlio  was  now  thoroughly  frightened. 

"  Yes,  brothers  as  of  old,"  said  Pierre  bitterly,  as  he 
thouKht  of  the  brotherly  love  that  Jacques  liad  ever 
shown  towards  him,  "  the  sons  of  Adam,  only  this 
time  the  parts  are  changed,  and  Abel  will  kill  Cain." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  will  have  it,"  exclaimed  Jacques 


Soon  after  I  became  a  mother.     My  child  was  taken  [savagely,  as  he  made  a  pass  at  Pierre 


THE  TWO  UKl'llAA.s. 


"  A  vooman  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  accents  of  dcejncst  terror,     "  She  it  cold— the  ia  dtad.'^ 


^ 


Tlii:   iWU  ORPHAJ^S. 


43 


The  BtruggTe  had  now  commenced,  aud  for  a  lew  mo-  uplifted  weapon,  to  prevent  Louise  from  leaving  the 


/ 


mentB  noltiiug  cuuld  be  heara  bui  uie  ciaabiug  of  iiie 
Btecl,  aud  Jacc^uea'  leurtui  oallia. 

But  it  was  uol  possible  iur  the  cripple  to  hold  out 
long. 

iiis  brother's  weapon  was  nearly  three  times  as 
long  as  his,  aud  Jacques  had  every  aUvaniage  in  the 
point  of  size,  aud  suuiigtti. 

In  a  short  time  Pieue  liad  received  a  fearful  blow 
on  the  shoulder,  from  which  the  blood  flowed  freely. 

'•  He  is  wounded/'  exclaimed  llenriette  in  a  terri- 
fied voice. 

"  No!  '  shouted  Pierre,  hoping  to  deceive  them  as 
to  his  f;ist  failing  sireugth 

"Isu'i  that  euough,  cripple]"  asked  Jacques  in  a 
mocking  tone  as  he  stopped  for  a  moment  to  gaiu 
breath. 

•'No,"  shouted  the  brave  boy ;  "cut  again, for  while 
she  18  in  danger  you  may  slash  my  flush  into  ribbons  ;  I 
shall  feel  nothing." 

Enraged  by  his  words  Jacques  sprang  npon  him 
with  the  ferocity  of  a  tiger,  and  it  at  once  became  ap- 
parent, that  however  brave  the  boy  might  be,  he  could 
not  withstand  such  a  furious  assault,  and  that  in  a 
very  few  moments  the  young  girls  would  again  be  in 
the  power  of  the  villainous  Jacques  with  no  one  to 
defend  or  protect  them. 

Hoping  that  De  Vaudrey  might  hear  her,  Henriette 
cried  in  a  loud,  despairing  voice : 

"Help!  help!" 

That  cry  seemed  to  arouse  La  Frochard  from  the 
apathy  into  which  she  had  fallen,  and  rushing  towards 
Henriette  she  placed  her  hand  over  the  girl's  month  to 
prevent  a  repetition  of  the  cry. 

But  that  one  cry  had  reached  the  ears  of  the  man 
who  would  have  rushed  into  certain  death  at  the  bid- 
ding of  that  voice,  and  just  as  Jacques  had  borne 
Pierre  to  the  ground,  and  was  about  to  run  him  through 
the  heart,  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  De  Vaudrey 
entered  in  time  to  stiike  Jacques  weapon  up  from  its 
aim. 

"What  is  this?"  he  exclaimed  angrily.  "  A  ruffian 
attacking  a  cripple  1  Down  with  your  weapon,  you 
villain,  or  by  heaven  I'll  beat  it  out  of  your  hand,  and 
spit  you  as  i  would   a  dog." 

Jacques  could  read  but  very  little  mercy  in  the  che- 
valier'fl  countenance,  and  he  retreated  out  of  the  reach 
of  his  weapon. 

"What  right  have  you  to  interfere  ?  "  he  cried  sav- 
agely.    "  Yon  shall  pay  for  this." 

As  the  chevalier  entereil,  the  old  woman,  seeing  that 
all  was  discovered,  had  gone  toward  Louise,  and  was 
trving  to  drag  her  away,  though  for  what  purpose,  or 
what  she  could  hope  to  afliect  by  it,  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  say. 

But  Pierre,  who  had  not  allowed  Louise  to  escape 
fiom  his  sight  a  moment,  le.st  in  his  rage  at  being  baf- 
fled, Jacques  should  attempt  to  wreak  his  venjfeance 
upon  the  young  girl,  now  sprang  to  her  assistance,  and 
forced  his  mother  to  the  further  end  of  the  room. 

The  chevalieFturned  his  head  for  a  moment  to  dis- 
cover the  cause  of  the  distuibanee,  and  Jacqiie.s  think- 
ing that  he  had  an  opportunity  for  revenge,  raised  h:s 
I  word  to  Strike. 

Another  moment  and  De  Vandrey  would  have  re- 
ceived his  death  blow  ;  but  a  low,  warning  cry  from 
Henrietta  caused  him  to  turn  his  head  just  in  time  to 
ward  ott'  the  blow. 

Jacqrtes  sprang  back  to  avoid  a  pass  which  the 
chevalier  made  at  him,  and  thus  escaped  for  the  mo- 
ment. 

"  Now,  villain,  down  with  your  weapon,  I  say,  and 
permit  these  ladies  to  leave  this  place,  before  yoii  com- 
pel me  to  punish  you  as  you  deserve." 

As  he  spoke  De  Vaudrey  moved  towards  Henri- 
etta. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Jacques,  now  grown  furious. 
"You  punish  me'  So  you  are  the  lover  of  the  other  one. 
Well,  take  her  and  go  ;  leave  the  little  one  to  me." 

And   Jacques  placed   himself  before  the  door,  with 


house. 


Scoundrel ! ''  cried  De  Vaudrey,  advancing  towards 


Again  the  clash  of  steel  wrung  out  in  thai  ganalli  i 
hut;  but  this  lime  it  was  uol  Jacques  who  Jt.a  ,hi 
victor.  "^  ^"® 

He  was  no  match  for  the  chevalier  i„  gword  plav, 
and  a  well  direclea  blow  made  an  ugly  gash  o,'.  hlii 
wrist,  aud  sent  his  weapou  flyu.g  ^^  „»  ],-^^  ,,^„^ 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  a  noise  was  beanl  just 
outside  ot  the  door  leading  to  the  river,  aud  PitHiu's 
well  known  voice  was  heard  saying: 

"  Open,  open  in  the  king's  name.'' 

That  cry,  so  appaling  to  criminals,  seemed  to  strike 
terror  to  ttie  heart  of  Jacques  and  his  mother. 

Pierre  ran  to  the  door,  and  was  unbarring  it  when 
La  Frochard  sprang  at  him  with  a  howl  of  rage. 

She  grasped  him  by  the  throat,  and  weak  and  ex- 
hausted as  he  was  by  the  loss  of  blood,  she  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  throwing  him  against  the  stairs,  where  she 
held  him  firmly. 

"Theniuttie  king's  name  I  will  open  it  for  you," 
again  cried  Picard,  and  imuiediately  sounds  were  beard 
as  if  some  heavy  object  was  being  used  to  batter  it 
down. 

Two  blows  were  suflicient  to  shatter  the  worm-eaten 
timbers,  and  a  tile  of  holdiers  entered  with  Picard  at 
tht-ir  head. 

The  old  wom^n  cowered  in  the  further  corner  of  the 
room,  and  Jacques  shrank  back  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  intruders. 

"  Ah,  master,"  exclaimed  Picard,  somewhat  sur- 
prised to  find  De  Vaudrey  there  before  hiu).  "  You 
found  your  way  along  that  passage  before  me,  and 
mademoiselle  too." 

"  Yes,  and  in  good  time,  Picard.  Here,  seme  of  yon 
guards  bind  this  ruffian." 

Jacques  was  soon  l)ound,  and  not  until  then  did  De 
Vaudrey  approach  Henriette,  and  folding  her  in  a  lov- 
ing embiace,  exclaimed  in  a  voice  that  conveyed  the 
world  of  love  he  felt  for  her. 

"Henriette,  my  love,  my  own." 

"A  second  time  I  owe  niy  life  to  yon,"  said  Henri- 
ette, in  a  voice  choking  with  emotion. 

"  No,  not  to  me,"  replied  De  Vaudrey,  unwilling  to 
receive  any  praise  for  wh.it  be  had  done.  "Thank 
Picard  there,  whose  selfish  bravery  left  me  to  defend 
the  end  of  a  passage  where  there  were  no  foes,  while 
he  stormed  the  front  of  the  castle.  Yonr  cries  for  hefp 
guided  mo  to  the  rescue." 

"  Louise,  my  darling  sister,"  said  Henriette,  taking 
her  by  the  hand  and  leading  her  forwani,  "  thank  your 
preserver."' 

The  blind  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  clasping  her 
hiinils  and  turning  lier  sightless  orbs  towards  where 
De  Vauilrey  stood,  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice  which 
carried  greater  meaning  with  it  than  wonis  could: 

"Ah,  monsieur,  you  do  not  know  from  what  a 
frightful  fate  you  have  saved  us." 

While  this  conversation  was  >:oing  on.  all  eyes  were 
turned  towards  the  two  orphans,  and  Mother  Fio- 
cliard  was  unnoticed. 

This  washer  opportunity,  and  she  resolved  to  em- 
brace it. 

She  had  no  wish  to  taste  the  reward  which  justice 
had  in  store  for  her,  and  she  resolved  to  escape. 

Stealing  cautionsly  past  the  soldiers,  she  had  reached 
the  do(U'  in  safety. 

In  another  monient  she  would  have  been  free  ;  but 
there  \ras  one  in  the  room  who  hail  connled  on  taking 
this  same  Alother  Frochard  under  his  own  care,aud  that 
one  was  Pieard. 

Allliongh  his  attention  had  been  diverted  from  her 
for  a  moment,  ilia  eyes  soMj;httlie  place  a^rain  where 
she  was  last  slaudiug,  and  to  his  surjuise  she  was  not 
there. 

A  rapid  glance  around  the  room  showed  the  old  wo- 
man in  tlie  act  of  opening  the  door,  and  in  an  instant 
Picard's  hand  was  on  her  shouldePk 


44 


THE  T'.YO  ORPHANS. 


"  Oh,  no  yoa  don't.,  old  hidy ."'  he  exclaimed  an  he 
obliged  her  to  come  back  ;  'you  niiist  not  run  avviiy 
from  your  dutiful  sou  becanse'lie  ia  in  a  little  trouble. 
He'll  need  your  motherly  care  now  more  than  ever." 

Seeing  that  escape  was  irapossil.le,  and  punishment, 
for  her  many  sinanearat  h.i.id.  the  old  hag  broke 
•ilown  most  pitiably,  and  in  a  most  sorrowful  voice 
n'tiined: 

"I'm  only  a  poor  old  woman.  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  their  evil  ways." 

But  the  appeal  was  lost  on  all  save  poor  Pierre,  who 
siood  bending  over  his  wheel  iu  an  attitude  of  deep- 
est, grief.  As  his  mother  spoke  he  held  out  his  hands 
to  her  as  thou'^ii  he  would  bear  her  troubles  as  he  had 
borne  hia  ow.i  uncouiplainiugly. 

"Picard.'  said  iho  chevalier,  "  take  charge  of  this 
•worthy  cmi  ile,  mother  and  son.  My  uncle,  the  count, 
will  see  to  tJieir  punishment.     Oft"  witli  yiem." 

Aath'uity  was  sweet  to  Picard,  and  he  made  the 
most  of  it."  Turning  to  the  guards,  he  said  in  a  most 
pompous  manner. 

"Take  that  male,  and  likewise  that  female  villain 
to  the  prison  of  La  Roquette,  there  to  await  the  jus- 
tice of  our  lord  the  king." 

The  guards  closed  around  the  prisoners,  and  were 
:;boutto  march  theui  ofi",  when  tl\e  old  woman,  with  a 
whine  that  was  more  natural  than  her  habitual  one, 
r.iid  with  the  tears  rolling  down  her  villainous  face 
caid  : 

"Please,  good  gentleman,  I  am  only  a  poor  old 
■woman." 

She  had  forgotten  the  many  pravers  for  mercy  that 
had  been  made  to  her  by  the  poor  blind  girl,  and  which 
she  had  answered  only  with  curses  or  blows.  As  she 
had  sown  so  must  she  reap  ;  but  in  the  time  of  her 
sowing  she  had  forgotten  the  harvest  that  she  surely 
must  gather,  and  she  who  had  shown  no  mercy  when 
tihe  would  ruin  body  and  soul,  now  prayed  for  mercy. 

To  Jacques  biutal  nature  such  signs  of  weakness 
Was  disgusting,  and  ill-befitting  a  Frochard.  He  turn- 
ed apon  her  with  a  savage  look. 

"  Stop  your  whining,"  he  said  coarsely.  '•  Remember 
that  you  are  a  Frochard. 

This  appeal  seemed  to  fir.d  a  response  in  the  old 
woman's  heart  Perhaps  she  remembered  that  when 
lier  husband  was  led  to  the  scaffold,  not  u  word  of  fear 
escaped  him;  but  he  met  his  doom  with  curses  upon 
ilia  lips  until  they  were  hushed  by  death. 

Without  another  word  La  Frochard  turned  to  go, 
nnTi  as  she  passed  Pierre  he  held  out  his  hands  implor- 
ing, and  in  a  most  piteous  voice  said: 

"  Jacques,  mother,  one  word  before  vou  go." 

His  mother  did  not  notice  this  appeal.  Her  mother- 
ly  instincts  were  long  since  dried  up  in  her  bosom,  and 
ehe  did  not  deign  to  bestow  one  glance  upon  him. 

But  Jacques  favored  him  with  a  wicked  look  and 
exclaimed  savagely  : 

"  Not  one  word.  Go  to  your  fine  friends  and  re- 
member that  you  sent  your  brother  to  the  scaffold." 

As  though  these  words  did  not  express  enough  of 
the  rage  that  was  raging  in  his  bosom  Jacques  sprang 
toward  his  brothei  and  bent  him  like  a  reed  over  the 
wheel. 

In  another  instant  the  poor  cripple  would  have  re- 
ceived his  death,  as  he  haa  his  distorted  limbs,  at  the 
hands  of  his  only  brother;  but  Picard,  ever  watchful, 
•interrupted  him,  and  like  a  wild  beast  baffled  of  his 
prey  Jacques  was  led,  cursing,  away. 

With  a  hymn  of  praise  in  her  heart  did  Louise  leave 
the  house  that  had  been  the  scene  of  so  much  siifTer- 
ing  to  her,  and  fervent  was  the  silent  prayec  that  Hen- 
riette  uttered,  as  with  her  arm  around  her  sister  and 
her  hand  clasped  in  that  of  the  chevalier,  she  went 
from  tiiat  noisome  place  to  reap  the  reward  of  all  her 
sufferings. 


CHAPTElTXXX. 


rONCLUSION. 

Picard  dressed  the  iiipple's  wounds,  and  conducted 


hi;n,  with  the  rest  of  the  party,  to  D  ■  1||indrey"«  house. 
where  it  was  their  intention  to  form  some  plan  of  ac- 
tion ;  for  they  believed  that  should  the  Count  learn 
that  Henriette  was  still  in  Paris,  he  would  attempt  to 
seiniiate  her  from  the  chevalier. 

But  a  great  change  had  taken  place  in  the  uiiiii^ter's 
feelings,  and  they  were  soon  to  luarn  it. 

Hardly  had  they  entered,  when  a  servant  brought 
a  letter  for  the  chevalier,  and  from  the  seal  he  knew 
that  i-t  was  from  the  uncle.  •  - 

He  opened  it  and  read  aloud  the  following  words  : 

'•  I  miderstaiid  now,  why  you  and  Picard  asked  for 

a  guard.     You  will  come  directly  to  me  as  soon  us  )  oil 

have  finished  your  work,   and    bring  with  yon,   those 

whom  you  have  rescued.  '/    '■  /<-"^-\, 

■' LisiERES,  Minister  of  P'olice.'* 

De  Vaudrey  hardly  knew  how  to  interpret  the  teno" 
of  the  letter.  Was  it  written  in  a  fi-iendly  spirit;  o: 
was  his  uncle  still  incensed  against  him? 

It  could  hardly  be  the  latter  case,  and  he  resolved  iiO 
obey  the  letter  fully. 

In  a  few  moments  the  party  were  at  the  hotel  of  tho 
Miifister  of  Police,  and  leaving  the  two  orphans  ana 
Pierre  with  the  valet  in  one  of  the  drawing  rooms,  th3 
chevalier  entered  his  uncle's  presence. 

The  count  and  countess  were  together,  and  the  at- 
fectionate  welcome  which  he  received  from  both 
showed  him  how  idle  were  his  fears  that  his  uncle  had 
not  relented. 

"  Have  you  succeeded?"  asked  the  countess  ill  C 
voice  which  betrayed  all  the  agitation  she  felt. 

"  I   have.'' 

"Tliank  God,'"  replied  his  aunt  fervently. 

De  Vaudrey  gave  her  a  warning  glance  'whicn  was 
observed  by  the  count. 

"Within"  the  past  hour,"  he  said  giavely,  as  he 
pressed  the  chevalier's  hand.  "I  have  learned  the  tiiitb. 
The  countess  lias  confessed  the  secret  which  has  cloud- 
ed our  married  life." 

De  Vaudrey  clasped  the  hands  of  both,  and  was 
about  to  speak,  ■when  the  count  interrupted  him. 

''I  ask  your  pardon,  chevalier,  for  all  that  I  have 
made  you  suffer.  I  have  done  all  in  my  power  to  re- 
pair tlie  wrong  I  have  done  you,  and  within  an  hour 
Henriette  Girard  will  be  lieri„- '' 

De  Vaudrey  looked  at  his  uncle  in  surprise.  He 
could  not  understand  the  meaning  of  his  words  ;  but 
at  last  a  light  broke  over  him. 

Under  the  belief  that  Marianne  was  Henriette,  the 
count  had  sent  for  her,  and  the  chevalier  now  saw  an 
oppoitunity  of  rewarding  her  for  the  noble  sacrifice  she 
had  made  in  behalf  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

"Mv  child  !  "  exclaimed  the  countess,  "  have  you 
brought  ray  child  V 

"  Ihave,  and  she  will  be  here  immediately." 

And  as  he  spoke  De  Vaudrey  left  the  room,  and  re- 
turned leading  Louise  by  the  Land. 

Of  the  meeting  between  that  mother  and  the  child 
from  whom  she  had  been  separated  sc^loug,  we  will 
draw  the  veil. 

Such  scenes  are  too  sacred  for  the  writer  to  profane 
by  trying  to  describe  them  through  the  cold  medium  of 
letters. 

While  it  was  taking  place  the  chevalier  explained  to 
his  uncle  the  sacrifice  that  Marianne  had  made,  and 
in  a  few  moments  all  were  assembled  totiether. 

As  soon  as  the  first  burst  of  joy  was  over  Louise 
turned  to  the  chevalier  and  said  in  a  voice,  that  to 
Pierre's  hungry  soul,  sounded  like  music  from  the 
sphere. 

"  Monsieur,  we  are  all  so  happy,  yet  we  must  not 
forget  poor  Pierre.  Noble,  brave  Pierre  !  Pierre, 
Pierre — where  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  remained,  mademoiselle,"  said  Pierre,  coming 
forward,  while  tears  bedewed  his  cheeks  and  his  voice 
was  painfully  husky  and  tremulous,  "to  ask  the 
privilege  of  saying  farewell.  Your  good  heart  will 
not  forget  the  poor  cripple  V 


THE  TWO  OliPHANS. 


45 


"  Never,  never,  Pierre,"  replied  Louise,  fervently, 
aa  ihe  pressed  hia  haid,  lab^r-staiued  hauda  between 
ber  thiu,  wasted  ones. 

"  A  mother  thanks  you  with  more  than  words,''  said 
the  countess,  in  an  earnest  tone. 

"Let  his  reward  be  uiy  care,"  quickly  added  the 
chevalier,  and  then  turning  to  Picard  he  ,3aid  :  -  I  look 
lo  you  to  see  that  Pierre  wants  lor  nothing  until  I 
shall  have  time  to  provide  for  him  to-morrow." 

We  will  leave  the  party  in  their  happiness,  and 
close  our  story  by  brietly  relating  a  few  incidents 
which  took  place  immediately  afterward. 

Xiouiae  was  at  once  placed  under  the  care  of  the 
good  doctor  who  would  have  cured  her  even  when  she 
was  only  a  charity  patient,  had  he  not  been  prevented 
by  Mother  Frochard,  and  he  gave  her  mother  every 
reason  to  hope  for  her  recovery. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  operation    was  to    be 

performed  which  would  show  whether  she  was  to  have 

the  use  of  her  eyes  oi  not,  an<i  the  blind  girl  bore    the 

pain  as  she  had  borne  her  siifFeriiigs  in  the  home  of  the 

Frochards,  bravely. 

}•/    A  ^®^  weeks  that  passed  swiftly   away,  thanks  to  a 

1  I    kind  mother's  and  Henriette's  care,  in  adarkened  room, 

I    and  when  she  emerged  her  sight  waa    completely    res- 

l     tored. 

Jrarianne,  tremblino:  for  fear  that  her  deception  waa 
diacrovered,  and  that  Henriette  was  to  be  made  to  sut- 
ler in  her  stead,  waa  brought  back  by  the  guards,  and 
jier  fears  were  changed  to  joy  wheii  she  learned  the 
joyful  tidings  of  Louise's  restoration  to  her  mother,  and 
Henriette's  liappinesa. 

De  Vaodrey  aettled  a  comfortable  income  upon  her, 
but  she  insisted  on  serving  Henriette  as  maid  until 
such  time  a8  she  went  to  gladden  the  home  of  a  worth  v 
maa. 


Pierre— good,  honest  Pierre  had  hia  reward  here  oq 
earth  as  we  know  he  had  it  hereafter. 

TliB  Count  de  Linieres  insisted  on  being  allowed  to    \ 
,  provide  for  him,  and  now  the  happy    cripple    received 
an  education  audi  as  few  could  boast  of  in  those  days     / 
and  rose  to  be  one  of   the  most    noted    advocates    in  / 
Paris. 

For  his  sake  the  sentence  of  death  against  hia  moth- 
er and  Jacques  waa  changed  to  exile,  and  we  will 
hope  that  in  anew  country  thev  changed  their  manner 
of  living,  and  endeavored  to  atone  for  tlie  many  sins 
they  had  committed. 

Picard  never  a^ain  occupied  the  position  of  valet  to 
the  Chevalier  de  Vaudrey. 

The  chevalier  pleaded  so  earnestly  with  his  uncle  for 
him.  that  within  a  month  after  the  closing  scenes  at 
the  boat-house,  lie  received  his  commission  as  captain 
of  the  guards,  and  although  he  never  rose  any  higher 
he  passed  his  life  very  happily,  especially  after  he  con- 
ceived a  violent  passion  Jor  the  repentant  Marianne, 
and  married  her. 

Of  Henriette  and  the  chevalier,  we  can  see  very  lit- 
tle that  the  reader  has  not  already  imagined.  In  au- 
awei'  to  De  Yaudrey's  prayer  tha't  she  would  becoui* 
his  wife,  she  answered 

••  To  be  near  Louise,  my  siater,  and  to  be  your  wife 
aeeuia  too  threat  a  )oy." 

Our  story  is  linialied,  and  aa  we  write  the  cloaing 
lines  agieat  hope  comes  up  in  our  heart,  that  in  pres- 
enting thia  tale  in  thia  form,  we  may  have  indiiced 
some  reader  not  to  pass  by  anyone  deserving  of  char- 
ity :  but  to  give  a  kind  word  and  pleasant  smile  to 
those  whose  lives  are  dreary  an<l  miserable,  even  if 
they  cannot  give  money.  Remember  that  he  who 
possessed  one  talent  was  hel<i  as  responsible  as  he  v/ha 
had  an  hundred,  and  ihat  a  kind  word  has  saved  uianv 
a  soul  from  the  mire  of  Despoud 


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